


Goodness is Going With You

by imbrokelyn99



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe – Fake Dating, Gay love is healing, M/M, and P I N I N G, lesbians and immigrants and pottery, middle-of-the-night diner runs, slow dancing in fancy clothes, so much food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21567091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbrokelyn99/pseuds/imbrokelyn99
Summary: When David and Patrick visit a potential vendor, she and her wife misconstrue their relationship, and to keep the vendor interested, David and Patrick tell a little white lie.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 103
Kudos: 293





	1. a pretty good bad idea

**Author's Note:**

> So the first chapter of this fic was posted on here a while ago, but shortly after that, I decided to abandon it and took it down. But then, about a month ago, I was inspired to finish it and planned out the entire rest of the story in the middle of the night. This is all just to say that if the first chapter feels familiar, it’s bc yes, you’ve probably read it before lol. It’s gone through minor edits since then, though, so feel free to reread! Hope you enjoy. <3 The title of this fic is from Shrike by Hozier (stream wasteland, baby!), and the titles of each chapter are lyrics from Waitress the Musical x

This whole mess could have been avoided if Patrick hadn’t insisted on coming with David on his trip to a local vendor’s house.

The store was expanding nicely, and though David had to fight the urge he had every day to release the feelings he’d so carefully tried to push to the back of his heart, he loved that his little store was getting so much attention. It almost made the very real crush David had on his very straight business partner feel a little more bearable.

But with sales continuing on the uptick and customers requesting more products, it was time, the pair felt, that they expand their vendor list. Purveying a prospective vendor’s wares was nothing new for David: he’d been the one making all the buying decisions since the beginning.

“I know, David, and the vendors you choose are great, but I’d like to get more involved in the buying process,” Patrick reasoned when David pointed that out. They were an hour from closing time on a Friday at the store, and it was David’s reminder that he would be driving out to the new vendor’s place the next day that spurred the discussion.

“You are involved. Very. It’s just that I like that this is the part of the business I can, you know, own. Not that we don’t own all of it together but...you know what I mean?” David said, hands dancing over the counter as he tried to enunciate his point. Patrick stared at him from behind the cash register, amused.

“David,” Patrick began, stepping out from behind the counter and leaning his hip against the front of it to face him. “We’re partners, right?”

David ignored the warm tingle that ran down his spine at the word “partners,” pursing his lips to hide the grin that threatened to break across his face. “Yes, Patrick, we’re partners.”

“So let’s do this one thing together. I know you’re probably sick of seeing me every day,” Patrick joked, “but it could be fun. And educational. I could learn more about that side of the business.”

David snorted. “Since when have you wanted to learn about the buying process?”

Patrick raised his eyebrows, all skepticism and disbelief save for the playful glint in his eye. “Mmm, since I invested thousands of dollars into this business?”

David sighed and slumped over, letting his hesitance crawl out of his shoulders. “Alright, fine. Just for this trip, to see what goes on,” he acquiesced.

“Great! What time are you picking me up tomorrow?”

“The least you could do is drive after bullying me into letting you come!”

“Bullying you?” Patrick said with a laugh. “I’m just coming along on your trip, David.”

The other man rolled his eyes, secretly pleased that Patrick didn’t let this little hiccup affect his teasing. “Be ready by 11 in the morning. And I would _not_ be upset if you had coffee with you.”

—-

So here was the thing: David really did like claiming this part of the business for himself, especially since it fell to Patrick to do the more mathematical stuff that was vital to keeping their store afloat. But the real reason David avoided bringing Patrick on buying trips was that he had to spend hours upon hours holed up in the shop with him, trading glances and invading each other’s space to get around in the backroom or through the narrow aisles between tables and shelves.

He recognised that this crush was becoming an unwieldy force in his life and that he had to do something about it, probably, so he made the buying trips his reprieve. A day out in the countryside, away from his hyper-charged workplace, did wonders for cooling his head… and other places.

Still, David couldn’t help the little thrill of pleasure he got seeing Patrick approach his car the next morning, in his usual blue button-up and jeans, two coffee cups in tow.

“Good morning, David!” Patrick said brightly. “One caramel macchiato, skim, two sweeteners, and a sprinkle of cocoa powder for you.”

David took the cup and thanked him, barely hiding his delight at the fact that Patrick knew his coffee order by heart.

“So where are we going exactly? And what are we buying?” Patrick asked when he had settled into the passenger seat and David turned out of Ray’s driveway.

“Well, so there’s this lady out near Elm Park whose ceramics have been featured in _Interview Magazine_ ’s Most Wanted column, which is high praise, if you ask me, for a small business. Anyway, that’s why I blocked out my Saturday to come see her and hopefully convince her to sell her ceramics at our store,” David said.

Patrick nodded, processing. “So you’ve done some research on this, cool. What makes her pottery so special?”

“I think it’s called raku? It’s made in this special way where after it’s fired in a kiln to set the glaze, it’s put in a container full of like, sawdust or newspapers or something, stuff that catches fire. It gives the piece this gorgeous, kind of ancient look that you don’t really see, you know, on the racks at Williams Sonoma.”

Patrick chuckled. “How do you know so much about pottery all of a sudden?”

David shot him a look. “First of all: you asked! Second, do you think I just go out and sign for whatever tickles my fancy without doing my research first?”

“David, you’ve taken jars of our moisturiser for yourself several times.”

“Okay, well, that’s different. It’s not a whole vendor relationship. Also, I do that because this face,” he said, gesturing to himself, “is the face of Rose Apothecary. And no one’s gonna buy our stuff if they think the owner’s skin is dry and cracked. So.”

“But what about this face?” Patrick countered innocently, mirroring David’s actions. “Isn’t this face also the face of Rose Apothecary?”

David pinched his lips into a line, determined not to grin at his business partner’s quips. “Okay, yes? But your skin is already perfect, so. Whatever you use at home is fine.”

Patrick ducked his head and smiled, content to leave the conversation where it was. He was the type to take a win where he could get one.

A half-hour passed comfortably between them, conversations coming to life and dying quietly, easy banter over control of the radio whiling the minutes away.

Before they knew it, they’d reached the driveway marked by a mailbox that was splattered with paint with “Mori” written in a playful cursive on the side.

“Is this the place?” Patrick asked. David nodded.

“Her name is Ayami Mori. This must be her farm-slash-studio.”

The pair drove up the winding driveway and parked right outside the renovated ranch house, walking up and ringing the doorbell after abandoning the old car to cool.

A minute passed before a woman in her fifties answered the door wearing a smock speckled generously with drying clay. “Hi! You must be David. From Rose Apothecary?”

“Yes, David Rose. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mori,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Please, Ayami is fine. And you are?”

“Patrick Brewer, David’s business partner. You have a gorgeous home,” said Patrick with a handshake.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. And thank you very much! My wife is an architect. She designed this place just for us. Please, step inside, but would you mind leaving your shoes here?” she asked, gesturing to a corner behind the door. David and Patrick submitted, leaving their sneakers on the mat Ayami gestured to and sliding their feet into slippers she provided them with.

“Thank you for these slippers. That’s very smart, actually. At least you know that germs aren’t getting into your house from outside,” David said, revelling in his comfortable footwear.

Ayami laughed. “Listen, you’d think that as someone who works exclusively with a messy medium like clay, I’d be used to cleaning up messes, but I’d rather keep my mess in my studio and keep the rest of my house clean. It’s easier that way.”

“For sure,” Patrick agreed.

Ayami led them further into the house, whose dark hardwood floors contrasted beautifully with the colorful furniture. The living room was furnished with two teal leather armchairs and an orange sofa, positioned across from a fireplace and a wall-mounted TV. The walls, a lovely cream color, were decorated with framed pictures and marvelous works of abstract art. Near the molding on the ceiling was a shelf that, they would find, ran through the whole ground floor of the house. Beautiful ceramic plates, each of them made with speckled white clay and marked with charcoal-colored veins that made each of them unique, ran across the length of the shelf.

“Are those plates you’ve made?” Patrick asked, noticing the decor at the same time David did.

“Yes! There was a point where I was making a handful of plates a day because I found the process so soothing. I didn’t have anywhere to put them, so Vivian, my wife, put up these shelves around the house so we could display them,” Ayami said fondly. The three of them settled on the couch before Ayami disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tea set, which appeared to be made of the same speckled clay as the plates but did not have the same black markings. The teapot was large and full to the brim, its spout gently releasing soft, fragrant steam.

“Please,” she said as she set the tea service down on the cherry coffee table, “help yourselves. This is pomegranate green tea—it’s practically all we drink around here.”

David poured himself and Patrick a cup each, savoring the smell. “This smells wonderful. Do you make it yourself?”

“No, no,” Ayami said with a laugh. “My neighbour down the road makes these beautiful tea blends and this is by far our favorite. We visit him every week to restock our supply.”

David and Patrick shared a look. “Is your neighbor Mr. Hockley, by any chance?” Patrick asked.

Ayami raised her eyebrows. “How’d you know?”

David grinned. “We sell his teas at the store! We haven’t tried this blend, though. Although now that we have, we should probably buy out all his stock. It’s fantastic,” he said. Ayami preened.

“Well, I’m glad I could introduce you to it. And what are the odds, right? Small world, I suppose,” she said with a laugh.

“Small world,” David agreed. “Maybe you should come by the shop and give us more recommendations for local products.”

“I’d be happy to! But for now, how about I show you my studio? I’d love to tell you about my process. You sounded so excited on the phone, David,” Ayami said, rising from her spot on the sofa.

“Perfect!” he replied, following suit. The three of them moved, teacups abandoned, to the back of the house, where they exited through the kitchen door, trading in their house slippers for rubber sandals that Ayami gave them once outside. David stayed mum about the shoes, which he knew must have been a surprise for Patrick.

In the backyard, hidden from the driveway by a thicket of trees, sat a smaller, simpler little cottage, all stone and white wood. They walked down the worn path to its front door and were greeted, once inside, by a clean white room and shelves upon shelves of more beautiful ceramic art. There were plates, large and small, as well as complete tea sets and more abstract, artistic pieces.

“Welcome to my studio,” Ayami said.

“It’s gorgeous,” David breathed. Patrick tore his eyes away from the art to study his business partner’s face, which was aglow with admiration.

“Thank you very much,” she replied humbly. “So, how much do you know about the kind of pottery I do?”

“It’s called raku, right? After you fire a piece, you put it in a container full of sawdust?” Patrick offered.

“Right,” Ayami said. “Raku firing is a traditional Japanese form of art. My grandmother was a potter back in Japan, and my grandfather was a diplomat for the Japanese government. While he was abroad, she learned from a local teacher and perfected the craft. She always said it gave her a sense of fulfilment and purpose while her husband was away. So, when I got old enough, she started teaching me.”

“That’s beautiful. Does she still make ceramic art?” David asked. Ayami’s smile turned bittersweet.

“No, she passed away about five years ago. Now, I do this because it centers me and because it’s a way for me to pay tribute to her every day.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss. But that’s such a beautiful sentiment,” Patrick said sincerely. She offered him a smile.

“Thank you. Now, let me show you how I work,” she said, pulling them over to her wheel.

It was small and simple, a little yellow table with what looked like a cake pan on it that had a ridged aluminum plate inside. The little table was attached to a foot pedal on the floor, which controlled the rotation of the plate inside the pan. Next to it was an unassuming black stool and another table with water and a slab of speckled white clay inside an open plastic tub. On the back wall, behind the stool, were shelves of different kinds of clay and tubs of glaze, arranged by color and composition. Next to the wall was a big metal box that looked like a refrigerator, empty and open, revealing nothing on the inside besides walls lined with heat lamps. Just to the left of that was another way out, a door with a window that let more light into the sunny studio.

“This is my workspace. This is the wheel that I throw on,” she said, referring to the yellow table, “and that metal box is the kiln.”

“For some reason, I was expecting, like, a huge pizza oven with coals and wood in it, but that kiln looks much more manageable,” David said with a flourish of his hands.

Ayami laughed. “Yeah, I think the pottery has a lot of preconceptions tied to it. It’s a lot more modern than people might think. This kiln definitely makes pottery more accessible for me.”

“So what exactly goes into making the pieces that you make?” Patrick asked.

“The ceramic plates that decorate my house have all been raku-fired, so after the bisque firing, which is what all pottery goes through after being thrown or molded and then dried, I cover the plates in both a white glaze and a special metal-based one.” Ayami picked up a plate from a nearby shelf and showed it to the two men up close. The speckled clay looked even more beautiful from close up, and the black markings took on a fascinating texture, somewhere between matte black and oil slick, when she rotated the plate in the light.

“And then after the glazes are on do you put it in the kiln?” David asked. Ayami grinned.

“Yes, that’s right. Once it reaches about 1,900 degrees Fahrenheit in the kiln, I take the piece out and bring it outside.”

“Outside?” Patrick asked, looking at the side exit near the kiln.

“Let me show you,” she said, leading them through the door. Out back was a large patch of gravel surrounded by manicured grass. There was an old wooden table sitting against the side of the cottage, atop which was a worn pair of gray fire-proof gloves and a large stack of sun-faded newspapers. Curled up beneath the table was a water hose attached to a spout that protruded from the wall of the cottage. Next to the table was a bale of hay, still tied up, and some labelled sacks of sawdust. About 20 feet from the cottage sat a giant metal garbage can, its sides blackened with soot, lid askew.

“Before I’m ready to take a piece out of the kiln inside, I come out here and prepare my ‘raku oven,’ so to speak,” Ayami said with a laugh. She walked over to the garbage can and opened it, showing the boys its ashen interior. “I get a small fire going in here with some hay. And then, when the piece comes out of the kiln, it goes straight into the fire. I cover the piece up with sawdust and newspaper to really get the fire going, and then I slide the lid over to seal it. The fire eats up the oxygen in the can and reacts with the metal glaze on the piece, and then a few hours later, when the fire has died and the piece has cooled down, I’ll take it out and scrub it down with water to remove the ash. And then it’s done!”

“And your grandmother taught you all of that? Aren’t grandmothers supposed to, like...keep their grandkids away from fire?” David asked with a laugh. Ayami chuckled.

“Well, she was always going on about the strength of our bloodline. Sometimes I thought she was convinced she was fire-proof,” she said.

“That’s amazing. And you do that whole process for all your pieces?” Patrick asked.

“Most, yes. Raku-fired pottery isn’t food-safe, though, so if I’m making pieces I want to use for eating on, I’ll just use the kiln and the white glaze. Raku pottery would give you metal poisoning if you ate off of it,” she responded.

“Okay, well, I’ll be sure to mention that when people buy plates by the dozen at the store,” David said.

Ayami smiled. “Listen, my wife will be home from running errands soon. Would you care to join us for brunch? I would love to get to know you both better.”

Patrick looked to David, who was already excited at the prospect of food. He smiled and said, “Absolutely, it would be our pleasure.”

The trio hiked back towards the main house, changed back into their house slippers, and settled back into the living room. Ayami took the teapot and retreated into the kitchen to warm up the tea again.

“I like her a lot,” Patrick said to David when they were alone.

“Careful, Patrick, she’s a married woman,” David warned jokingly. Patrick laughed and fidgeted with the teacup he’d left earlier. “I know what you mean, though. And her art is gorgeous. I think it would do really well at the store.”

Patrick nodded. “Yeah, I almost want one of those plates for myself.”

Just then, they heard the lock on the front door click open. “Ayami, I’m home!” called a voice from the front hallway. The boys turned as a woman walked into their line of sight. She was picturesque: tall, tan, and blonde. “Hi! You must be the Roses!” she said with a smile.

David and Patrick stood to greet her. “David Rose, yes. You must be Vivian! Ayami has told us so much about you,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Likewise! We’re both very interested in your store.”

“Patrick Brewer,” said the other man, introducing himself and shaking her hand, “and we’re very interested in your wife’s artwork!”

“So am I,” Vivian said with a laugh. “Are you joining us for brunch? I make some mean scrambled eggs.”

“They are, actually!” said Ayami from the doorway, padding across the living room to give her wife a chaste peck on the lips in greeting. “Nice day?”

“Yeah, I dropped off our mail and ran to the office to get some work done. I’m starving, though,” Vivian replied, pulling her wife in for a hug.

David and Patrick looked on fondly at the couple. “Is there anything we can do to help with brunch? David’s not much of a cook, but I can figure out my way around a kitchen,” said Patrick. David smacked his arm.

“Uncalled for!” he said indignantly. The other three laughed.

“Actually, we have some chicken and apple sausages in the freezer that would taste amazing grilled. Think you can handle that?” Vivian asked.

“Perfect, yeah,” Patrick replied.

“Okay, so, I’ll...set the table? Where are we eating?” David asked.

“There’s a dining nook in the kitchen that we passed on the way out. Come, I’ll show you where the dishes and silverware are,” said Ayami.

The four of them split up, David busying himself with the task of decorating the round blue table in the kitchen with artfully-set plates and silverware while the other three put together the meal. Patrick was outside, working the grill. Meanwhile, Ayami and Vivian danced around each other, both working on different burners on the stove. David watched as they bantered back and forth easily, their bodies comfortable navigating the cramped space. He choked back a sigh, wondering to himself if he’d ever find something like that, something so effortlessly serene. He pushed the thought out of his mind and arranged some wildflowers he’d picked from outside in a small vase for the table.

The meal was ready quickly, and the four of them sat at the table and marvelled at the food. Vivian made her signature soft scrambled eggs with pecorino (“It’s Gordon Ramsay’s recipe!” she said proudly, and David launched into a story about how his mother tried to book him to cater a charity lunch at a swanky New York hotel, but he ended up bringing the arrogant and untalented chef at the hotel restaurant to tears. Moira was on the brink of a panic-induced meltdown for a whole week afterwards, but the beef Wellington was to die for. Vivian and Ayami were in tears with laughter). To accompany the eggs, Ayami toasted sunflower spelt bread in the oven with some olive oil and roasted mushroom caps and tomatoes on the vine in a frying pan. Patrick’s grilled chicken and apple sausages, still smoking from the fire, sat plump and juicy in the center of the table. Ayami poured each of them another cup of pomegranate green tea and they dug into the food.

David could barely contain the satisfied groan he let out as soon as he took a bite of bread and eggs, and Patrick looked on with amusement, though the tips of his ears were turning a bit red. “You guys are geniuses, truly. This is an amazing brunch, thank you,” David said, slicing into a mushroom cap.

“Thank you for staying for brunch! We love having company,” said Ayami, holding her wife’s hand on the table.

“It’s our pleasure, honestly,” Patrick responded.

“So how did you two meet?” Vivian asked, eyes alight with curiosity.

David and Patrick shared a look. “Well, Rose Apothecary started with me,” David began. “I went to an office in town to file some paperwork to start up this business, and Patrick was there to help me out.”

“Right, and he really needed the help,” Patrick said with a laugh. “What was it you called it? ‘A general store, but also a very specific store?’”

David swallowed a smile and looked down at his food as the women laughed. “I’ll admit, I couldn’t have gotten the store off the ground without you. You were very helpful,” David said. Patrick beamed.

“You guys are adorable,” Vivian said. “It’s so nice to see other members of the LGBT community thriving here.”

David and Patrick glanced at each other in surprise. Ayami interrupted before they could correct her wife. “Right, it’s so refreshing to meet another gay couple. And of course, we love the idea of supporting an LGBT-owned business!”

Vivian agreed. “What’s it like having a romantic partner as your business partner?” she asked.

Patrick nearly choked on the tea he’d been sipping. David glanced at his business partner with alarm, unsure at how to defuse the situation. Patrick recovered and gave him a measured look.

“It’s nice, actually,” Patrick said, running a hand down David’s back. David gave the women a nervous smile, trying to hide the fact that his head was spinning. He tried to calm himself by counting how many times he could shout _what the fuck_ in his head before someone next spoke.

Patrick continued, “There are difficult days, of course. Life isn’t always smooth sailing. But I feel like our partnership is stable enough to withstand anything at this point. And now that the business is growing at a steady rate, I appreciate having him around to keep things interesting.”

David looked at Patrick, mouth ajar, marvelling at the words he was saying. “That’s...so sweet,” he said, finding his voice. Patrick gave him an easy smile and squeezed his shoulder.

“Very sweet,” Ayami agreed. “How long have you been together now?”

David laughed. “Not long at all.”

The four of them continued to eat and chat at length about other small businesses in the area. The boys asked about Vivian and Ayami, both relieved that they had moved on from the topic of their relationship. But as much as David was enjoying the food and the company of the two women, he was itching to get back into the car so he could talk to Patrick and ask what the fuck all that was about. He spent the rest of the afternoon trying to slow his heart rate as he listened to Vivian and Ayami’s stories.

“So there I was, in the busiest fish market in the world, and I knew this old guy was trying to overcharge me for a cut of salmon, but it was literally my second day in Japan and I couldn’t speak a word of Japanese to haggle my way out!” Vivian said with a laugh.

Ayami jumped in. “Right, and I was in the market that day to grocery shop since I was in the country to visit family. So I turned a corner, and that’s when I saw this beautiful Canadian woman—“

“Oh no, hold on, I distinctly remember you confusing me for an American,” Vivian interrupted with an exaggerated expression of disgust on her face.

“And you’ll never let me forget it, I know.” Ayami chuckled. “Anyway, I couldn’t resist helping this poor damsel in distress get her salmon, so I came over and haggled the price down to half for her.”

“A true lifesaver,” Vivian said cheekily, taking her wife’s hand and kissing her knuckles. “So to thank her, I invited her out for dinner. And the rest is history. She came back to Canada before I did, of course, since I had to finish my semester abroad for my Master’s in architecture, but we kept in touch, and we started seeing each other officially when I came back.”

“God, you guys are like a fairytale. And now you’re this successful couple with a gorgeous country house and booming businesses. It’s so inspiring,” David said. The women smiled.

“Well, I, for one, can’t wait to see what you turn Rose Apothecary into together,” Ayami said. “It’s such a promising business and I would be honored to have you sell my pieces at your store.” David and Patrick traded smiles.

“Thank you, Ayami. That means a lot,” Patrick said.

The women sent them home with what was left of their lush brunch and promises to draw up their contract on Monday. David practically vibrated with anxiety as he settled into the driver’s seat and waited for Patrick to buckle himself into the seat next to him. When they were ready to go, David wheeled the car around and drove back down the driveway, turning back onto the street and going back the way they came hours ago.

David cleared his throat. Patrick took a deep breath, and they both started talking at the same time. David laughed uneasily. “You… you go first,” he said.

“Okay, um. So, I’m sorry about that. I felt like we’d been talked into a corner and I didn’t want to… offend them by correcting them, so I just… agreed. And I mean, I don’t know where they were before in terms of being convinced to sell the plates with us, but I think it helped, you know… letting them think we were together,” Patrick said, playing with his hands and staring down at his lap.

“No, yeah, I—it’s okay,” David said, keeping his eyes trained on the road. “But… so what happens now?”

Patrick’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean.” David swallowed. “Like… are we gonna keep pretending that we’re together in front of them? Or...?”

Patrick sucked in a breath. “I feel like it’s too late to tell them otherwise, so… I guess we’re in this now. I’m sorry, David, I guess I panicked and I just did what I thought would be easiest for us at the time.”

David’s heart twisted. He wished they didn’t have a whole half hour drive together ahead of them because all he wanted to do was hide away in his bed and let the tears that were pricking the back of his eyes fall freely. He swallowed hard again, willing the thoughts in his head to slow down so he could settle on something to say.

“Um. It’s okay, Patrick, I get it,” David said finally. “I just… don’t want to make things weird, you know, for you. So like… I mean, I’ll let you take the lead here, I guess.”

David could feel Patrick’s gaze burning through him and wished the blotchiness that he knew was staining his cheeks right now would go away. He kept trying to tilt his chin up, willing the tears forming at the corners of his eyes to evaporate. 

“We don’t have to make a big thing of it,” Patrick said, clearly trying to reassure David. “We can just pretend around Viv and Ayami and then on our own, it’ll be like normal.”

David could feel Patrick’s gaze boring through him. “Yeah. Like normal,” David said as he chewed on his bottom lip.

Patrick sighed and turned on the radio. David was glad to have something filling this heavy silence that had grown between them, and he gasped when Tina Turner’s “The Best” came blasting through the speakers.

“I love this song!” he said, happy to break the tension. Patrick laughed and started singing loudly along to the music. The pair flew down the highway, performing dramatically for each other, with enough air guitar solos and scream-sung verses to knock out an audience. As the song came to a close, David and Patrick laughed themselves out, breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is from "Bad Idea"


	2. make it work, make it easy

If David thought he could have a peaceful breakfast with his family before opening the store that Monday, he was sorely mistaken. Though perhaps he should have known by now that the word “peaceful” did not exist in his family’s vocabulary.

They had just started tucking into their plates of food when Roland sauntered up to their usual booth.

“Morning, Roses,” Roland said, sipping the coffee he’d just picked up from the counter.

“Good morning, Roland. I see you’re taking your coffee break early today. I hope I don’t need to remind you that the air conditioner in room five needs to be fixed before noon,” Johnny said from behind his copy of the _Wall Street Journal_.

“Don’t worry, Johnny, I have my best guy on it,” said Roland.

“Who’s your best guy?”

“Luca, he works at the quarry. His dad made radiators for a living back in the ‘80s, so I thought he could figure it out.”

Johnny folded his newspaper up and shot Roland a displeased look. “Roland, I’m not paying you to get someone who, for all I know, has never seen the inside of an air conditioner to fix ours! I’m paying you to handle it yourself.”

“Alright, alright, Johnny, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’ll make sure it’s working.”

Johnny nodded and returned to his paper, satisfied.

“Oh, by the way—“ Roland started, ignoring the groans of frustration that floated simultaneously out of the Roses’ mouths, “congratulations, Dave.”

David’s face soured at being called Dave. “Um? Thank you? What did I do?” he asked.

The frown that furrowed his brows only deepened when Roland started speaking. “Oh, I heard from Mr. Hockley that you and Patrick are finally together! Everyone’s been rooting for you, you know.”

David swallowed hard. “This is… the first I’m hearing of this.”

“Yeah,” Roland continued obliviously, “we actually had a pool set up to bet on when you guys would get together. I said it would only take you guys a month! Won two hundred bucks for it, so I guess I should thank you.”

“Uh—” David started before Moira chimed in.

“David, when were you going to tell your only family that you’d begun an _extramercantile relationship_ with your business partner?” she said, her voice growing in volume the more she spoke. David winced, clocking the growing number of eyes that had trained themselves on the Roses’ table.

“It… I—This wasn’t how this was supposed to go!” David said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, sorry, Dave, I didn’t know it was some big secret,” Roland said.

David inhaled hard through his nose. “Roland could you—could you just. Give me a minute? With my family?”

“Sure. Got to get going before the boss gets mad,” he said with a conspicuous wink in Johnny’s direction before lumbering off to do god-knows-what. Johnny grimaced as he walked away.

“God, David, I’m your sister! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! I thought we were closer than that,” Alexis whined.

“Oh my god, I can’t do this right now. I’m leaving. Don’t text me,” David said, rising from his seat. The panic constricting his chest had suddenly made him way too nauseated to polish off his chocolate chip waffle.

“David—” Johnny started, a warning tone in his voice.

“Dad, I have to go run my business. Remember that? That thing that’s super important to me that I can’t jeopardise with all of this nonsense?” David said with a displeased wave in his family’s direction.

“Okay, David, but we’re talking about this later,” Johnny said.

“Have fun playing Store with your little business partner-boyfriend, David,” Alexis called teasingly. David let out an aggrieved groan and didn’t spare his family a second look as he stomped out the door and crossed the street.

David slipped into the store and found Patrick stocking the till with cash. “Hey! How was breakfast with your family?” Patrick said.

David offered him a withering look. “Um, first of all, I can’t believe your unbridled optimism has rubbed off on me enough that I could even _hope_ breakfast would turn out well. It never does, Patrick.”

Patrick chuckled. “What went wrong today? Did Twyla get Mrs. Rose’s order wrong?”

“Oh, no. I wish it were that simple. It appears that the little white lie we told Ayami and Viv this weekend has spread throughout the _entire_ country,” David said, spreading his arms out wide. “I suggest we go into hiding before this gets worse.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Patrick asked, his features twisting with concern.

David let out a weary sigh. “Roland heard from Mr. Hockley, who I guess heard from Ayami and Viv, that you and I are together.”

“Oh?” Patrick said with a chuckle.

“And he decided to congratulate me on that in front of my entire family.”

“Oh.” The humour slid off of Patrick’s face immediately.

“Yeah. And obviously my mom had a very loud fit about it. If all of Canada hadn’t already known, well, they do now.”

Patrick scratched the back of his neck, suddenly deep in thought. “Well, what’s our play here, David?”

“You’re asking me? This was your idea, remember?” David said, panic rising in his voice.

“Okay, um… well, it’s too late to correct everybody… unless you set the record straight just now?”

“Absolutely not, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

Patrick sucked in a breath. “Well, if this is what we’re dealing with now, I guess we just… play along.”

“Play along? What, pretend we’re dating in front of everybody? What happened to ‘like normal,’ Patrick?” David’s hands were all over the place, like he expected to pull the solution to their problems out of the air.

“I—David, if we tell them, it’ll get back to the Moris. And that’s going to be such a lucrative partnership for us… and I like them. I don’t want them to think we lied.”

“But we did, Patrick. This is the first time ever that a lie I’ve told has come back to bite me in the ass, and I don’t like it.”

Patrick looked at him with amusement. “I’m having a hard time believing that you’ve never had to face consequences for lying.”

David groaned. “Patrick, can we just… find the solution here, please? I can feel a stress pimple growing on my forehead, and if I start fully breaking out because of this, you’ll have the mother of all bitch fits on your hands.”

Patrick sighed. “I don’t see another way out of this, David. Either we tell everyone and we ruin the partnership with Ayami, or we don’t, and we just ride it out until people forget or something.”

David dragged his fingers down his face. “Forget? People aren’t gonna forget! And what if you’re, I don’t know, walking down the street with, like, a future girlfriend or something? People are gonna talk.”

Patrick let out an awkward laugh. “I’m not looking to date anyone any time soon, are you?”

David felt the heat rise in his cheeks. “I mean. I don’t know.” He stifled the need to run his fingers through his own hair and pull, just to have something to pull at. “This is so fucking messy, Patrick. How did we let this happen?”

Patrick sighed. “I’m sorry, David. Listen, about seeing other people, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Well...should we have ground rules? I feel like I could use some ground rules,” David said.

“That sounds good. Do you wanna run through them over dinner tonight?” Patrick asked. David tilted his head, almost askance.

“Uh. Okay. Tonight,” he said, sounding unsure. Patrick smiled.

“Great. Ayami’s gonna be here in like fifteen minutes, by the way. For the contract.”

“Right. Okay.” David busied himself with arranging and rearranging the stock on the shelves while Patrick went about doing the actual work that needed doing—sweeping the floor and packing bottles of juice into the fridge.

Ayami’s arrival was swift, but not swift enough. David’s heart seemed to have bought real estate in his throat, and he swallowed hard as he opened the door for her.

“Morning, boys! How was your weekend?” she said breezily.

“Oh, fine, Ayami, thanks for asking. How was yours?” said Patrick.

“Great! Viv says hi. By the way, I have the first crate of plates in my car. The rest will be delivered this afternoon, but I wanted to hand off the first one myself for good luck. Think one of you could help me get it out of the trunk?” She asked.

David looked at Patrick with a raised eyebrow. Patrick met his gaze and laughed. “Sure, Ayami, I’ll help. Lead the way,” Patrick said.

David paced back and forth across the aisles of his store, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that was chiding him for wearing an ugly path into the hardwood. He didn’t know what to do with himself: it felt like his tongue was too big for his mouth, his limbs too long and gangly to control properly. He felt as if his consciousness was succumbing to the suffocating tendrils of panic that were blooming out of his chest. The only thing keeping him grounded, besides the warm wooden furniture that decorated his store, his second home, was the pinprick of light shining through his mind that said, _Isn’t this what you wanted anyway? For Patrick to be yours?_ He thought he could dismiss it, find another distressing thought to blot that one out, but it spilled through relentlessly, forcing him to address that maybe this wasn’t so terrible a situation. That maybe, even if it wasn’t real, he could enjoy pretending it was.

The five minutes it took Patrick and Ayami to carry the crate from her car to the store were over all too soon. David held the door open for them as they manoeuvred the crate through and set it down gently on the floor next to the register.

“I’m just gonna, um—I’ll get the contract from the backroom and then we can sign it out here,” David managed. He slipped into the back and picked up both copies of the contract off the desk and a fountain pen, a vestige from his past life that he made all their vendors sign with. David wasn’t _too_ superstitious, but he felt that if their vendors signed with this beautiful, weighty black Mont Blanc, it would lend some good luck to the exchange. If nothing else, it at least elevated the experience for them. 

He presented both copies to Ayami, pressing them onto the counter and sliding them over like he was in a movie. “So this is one copy for your records and one copy for ours,” David said. “Shall we go over the terms again? I know we talked about them over the phone yesterday but, uh. I’d just like to make sure.” 

Ayami smiled. “Sounds great,” she said, and she picked up a copy. 

David scrunched up his face, pleased, and scanned the first page. “Okay,” he began, putting on his business voice, “so Patrick’s going to send you sales reports every other Friday starting next week. You’re going to be responsible for sending us 30 plates a week—that’s three crates, I believe—and depending on how they do, we can renegotiate that number in the future.” 

“Right, so if they sell well, I could be sending you more per week?” Ayami asked.

“That’s right. And if they don’t—which I doubt, since I’m sure they’ll be very popular—we can settle on a lower number, too,” Patrick chimed in.

David nodded and continued. “So if we decide to host events with you here, which is very likely since I’d want, like, a tasteful little something to promote this first batch and bring more people into the store, 40 percent of the gross profit from ticket sales will go to you.”

“What kind of events were you thinking?” she asked.

David tilted his head. “Maybe a pottery class? You said at brunch that you do some sculpting, too, so maybe we could arrange something in the courtyard out back and you could host a sculpting class.”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking about doing something like that! Excellent. I can’t wait.” 

Patrick grinned. “It’s gonna be great. It’ll bring a lot of traffic to the store, too. Speaking of which, you’re going to get a 25 percent discount on everything we sell, since you’re a vendor now.” 

“Perfect. I’ve been eyeing those hand soaps since I walked in,” Ayami said. 

She agreed to the terms they discussed and signed both copies with a flourish before gravitating to the centre table and bringing some of the lavender sage soap bars up to her nose. 

David picked up their copy of the contract and went in the back to file it and give himself a second to breathe. This felt more than just the beginning of a relationship with a vendor. Now that he had this contract, setting all of this into stone, it felt like he’d walked into a brand new life. He imagined that tonight, after he and Patrick settled on their _own_ contract terms, this feeling that was nestling into the base of his spine would solidify further. He tried to shake the thought out of his mind, not feeling ready to tackle that reality quite yet. He steeled himself to walk back out there and face the day. 

As soon as he pulled the curtain closed behind him, he felt a warm hand slip across the small of his back and couldn’t keep himself from starting at the touch. 

“You okay?” Patrick murmured. 

_Oh, right, we’re doing this now_ , David thought. He swallowed hard. “Uh, yeah. It’s just, um. Been a weird morning. For me.” 

Patrick nodded, concern furrowing his brow, but he didn’t push. 

Ayami floated over to the register then, carrying a handful of soaps and a bottle of body milk. Patrick dutifully assumed his post behind the counter and started ringing her up. 

“Viv and I would love to have you both back at the house for a celebratory dinner on Friday. What do you think?” she said. 

David and Patrick shared a split-second glance, but replied enthusiastically in the affirmative. They agreed to swing by at 7 and saw her off. 

David hesitated to say that the day went by _mercifully_ quickly, since he felt he didn’t have that much time to sit with his thoughts and stew with the fact that he and Patrick would be having dinner together and talking about their relationship that night. But, at the very least, it kept him from having to interact very much with his business partner. With all these conflicting emotions rocketing around inside him all day, he imagined he wouldn’t have handled solo interactions with Patrick well. 

But then they were locking up, performing the motions of preparing the store for the next day, and walking side-by-side to the cafe. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, or if he should hold Patrick’s, so he folded his arms up in front of him and let Patrick lead the way to a booth.

“So… I get the feeling that you’re upset,” Patrick began carefully, folding his hands on the table in front of them. 

David looked up and met his eyes. “I, uh. I’m just. Feeling a lot? Right now? I kinda wish I’d had the time to work through everything I’m feeling.” 

Patrick’s eyes widened and he started kneading his palm. “We don’t have to do this right now if you don’t want to. We can just eat and talk about the store. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

David scrunched his face up and tossed his head back. “No. No. I think… it would be good to set some boundaries. I need boundaries.” 

Patrick let out a relieved sigh. “Okay. We can do that.” 

“Hey, guys!” Twyla said brightly, appearing at the side of the table. “Congratulations!” 

Patrick smiled tightly at her. “Uh, thanks, Twyla. You ready to order?” he said to David. 

David nodded and ordered spaghetti and a big glass of red wine with a slice of chocolate cake for dessert. He figured that if he was going to have this conversation, it might as well be happening over a plate of carbs. Patrick ordered a club sandwich and fries and a glass of wine of his own. 

“If you think I’m sharing that chocolate cake with you, you’re sorely mistaken,” David said as soon as Twyla walked away.

Patrick chuckled. “I wouldn’t even try it.” 

“So, um. I’m glad the contract signing with Ayami went well today.” 

Patrick nodded. “Yeah. I really liked that sculpting class idea. We should get around to planning it soon.” 

“I agree. Now that Ronnie’s fixed up the courtyard for us, it would be nice to host more events there. I think it would be good to start with this one.” 

“Right,” Patrick said. “Plus, you know, we wouldn’t have to worry so much about making sure everything’s cleaned up before we open the next day.” 

“Yeah,” David murmured.

The silence between them stretched on then, and David felt discomfort crawl up his spine, making him itchy in his own skin. 

“Um, so, given the success with Ayami this morning, I think we should… make a contract of our own,” David offered. 

Patrick chuckled. “Yeah, I… think that’s smart.” 

David took his journal and a pen out of his satchel and wrote “Relationship Contract” across the top. 

“Okay, so, this is mostly just so we’re… on the same page,” David began. 

“Okay…” Patrick said.

“So, um. I guess… PDA? Is as good a place as any to… start?” David said, his shoulders inching up towards his ears with every word. 

“Uh. Yeah. Like...kissing?” 

“Yeah, um. I’m...fine with it? I guess? Just like. On the cheek, though.”

“On the cheek,” Patrick agreed. David wrote the point down under the header, underlining “on the cheek” for emphasis. He heard Patrick let out a laugh and looked up to see Patrick slowly dissolving into a fit of giggles. Patrick had a cute laugh, one that brightened up his whole face and made his dimples set deeper into his cheeks. David could hardly keep his own smile from creeping across his face.

“What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing, I just…” Patrick began. “I can’t believe this is happening.” 

“Neither can I,” David said with a chuckle, his mouth twisting off to the side. 

Patrick smiled at him for a beat, like he was just taking him in. Then: “You can hold my hand.” 

This snapped David out of the moment. “Uh, what? Now?” 

Patrick raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat. “No, uh—I meant… for the rules. We can hold hands.” 

“Oh,” David said with a little shake of his head. He started writing. “Right, yeah. Hand holding—good. What else?”

“Uh, I don’t know—you’re the rom-com connoisseur. What do they usually put down for these things?” 

David gave him a look. “This… this isn’t, like, _that_ common in romantic comedies. I mean, there was Sandra Bullock’s movie _The Proposal_ , but… wait, is this you telling me that you haven’t seen many rom-coms?” 

Patrick shook his head. “My mom is a big fan, but I never really got into them. So… no.”

“ _You’ve Got Mail_? _Sleepless in Seattle_?” David asked. 

“Nope. I think I’ve seen _An Affair to Remember_ , though. But I don’t think that’s a romantic comedy.”

“Oh my god, no, absolutely not, I’m putting that in the contract. ‘Patrick must watch the best romantic comedies in history with David, including _Notting Hill_ , _While You Were Sleeping_ , and _10 Things I Hate About You_ ,’” David wrote quickly. 

“If I have to do that, then you have to come to all my baseball games,” Patrick negotiated. 

David looked up at him with a pained expression. “Really?” 

“Isn’t a relationship supposed to be give-and-take?” Patrick countered. 

David closed his eyes and sighed. “Okay. Yeah. That’s fine. I can scrounge up some cute ‘my boyfriend’s on the baseball team’ spectator looks.” 

“Good,” Patrick said, satisfied. 

Twyla floated over with their food and they dug in immediately. “Oh, but you have to bring me coffee every morning,” David said between bites. 

“I already bring you coffee most mornings, David.” 

“Mhmm, but there’s nothing wrong with getting it in writing.” 

Patrick chuckled. “Okay.” 

“And… phone backgrounds?” 

“What about them?” Patrick asked. 

“Don’t couples usually have pictures of each other on their phone? Or...would that be weird? For us?” That word— _us_. It felt so foreign used like this, but David could admit that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to get accustomed to. He might as well start now.

“We could do that, sure. Do you want me to send you a picture?” Patrick asked before leaning in to take a big bite out of his sandwich. David immediately whipped his phone out and snagged a picture of him mid-bite, looking straight at the camera, a little startled. 

“Got one,” David said with a lopsided grin. Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“I’m gonna sneak a picture of you like that before the night is over, mark my words.” 

“Oh, no, I’m sending you an approved picture. I don’t need you deciding you can’t stand my face in the middle of all this and then leaving in the night, never to be heard from again,” David shot back. 

“That would never happen,” Patrick said sincerely, and David had to look down at the contract to escape the warmth in his gaze. He quickly scribbled down the point about phone backgrounds. 

“I’m gonna add a point in here about not telling anyone that we’re faking this relationship, just in case,” David murmured.

“No snitching,” Patrick agreed.

David looked back over his list. “Anything else? Oh, should we tell your family that we’re dating?” 

“No,” Patrick said immediately. David looked up in alarm, surprised by the conviction in his tone. “Um. No. I don’t… I can’t… do that,” Patrick said more softly. 

“Right. Mhmm. Yeah. Of course. Okay.” David’s brow furrowed and he trained his eyes on his half-finished pasta, willing the tightness in his throat to ease up. Of course it was perfectly reasonable for Patrick to not want to tell his family. David didn’t need reminding that he was… _a lot_ , and Patrick probably didn’t want to subject his parents to all that, especially since this was just a fake relationship. _It isn’t real_ , David reminded himself. _It isn’t real_. But that didn’t make this any less painful. David brought himself to look at Patrick and saw something written on his face, like he wanted to explain, but David wasn’t going to press him to do it. Not on this.

Patrick shook his head, looking like he was trying to clean the Etch-A-Sketch that was his brain, and cleared his throat. “Sorry, um… so should we… sign?” 

David nodded and left his signature at the bottom of the page, a curling, swooping thing full of flair that he developed when he was 16 that had become muscle memory since then. He traced the lines of it with his eyes, thinking about the irony of the fact that his signature was full of graceful loops and soft curves when all he was feeling inside at that moment were the sharp edges of humiliation. He wrote the date down next to it and passed the journal and pen over to Patrick, who signed and dated opposite David. 

Patrick extended a hand across the table, like they were executives who’d just signed a deal, and David couldn’t help but chuckle at that, the ice in his stomach starting to thaw already. They shook on it, and David knew that his instinct from this morning was right. He felt like that knot at the base of his spine had grown denser, like it was grounding him now, keeping him from floating away. 

“So,” Patrick said, clearing his throat. David looked at him. “Dinner with the Moris on Friday.” 

“Mhmm,” David said, resting the tips of his fingers on the table. 

“What are we bringing?” 

David made a face. “I, um, wasn’t aware it was potluck? I can’t cook for them. They’ll never speak to us again.” 

“He admits it!” Patrick said with a laugh. 

They downed their wine and picked through the last of their meals as they discussed what to wear to dinner and negotiated on whom would bring what. (They decided a bottle of wine each would suffice.) David actually did end up sharing his chocolate cake with Patrick because they were in this now, something new and different and not altogether unpleasant, and if Patrick made him feel a little more generous, then who was he to resist? He went home that night feeling a little lighter, walking with his spine a little straighter, and though the nagging discomfort of knowing that this was all just pretend, that Patrick wouldn’t actually want this if he didn’t have to do it for the business, sat heavily at the back of his heart, David felt that maybe things could turn out alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is from "What Baking Can Do"


	3. my heart's at the wheel now

The trip to the Moris’ house that Friday felt twice as long as it had just a few days prior, but maybe it was because Patrick knew that he had an interesting dinner ahead of him. An interesting, terrifying, exciting, insane dinner, where he’d have to perform the role of David’s boyfriend in front of vendors they were trying to build a relationship with. But nothing safe was worth the drive, and, at the very least, this occasion would give him the opportunity to further test the waters he’d been wading in all week. 

Patrick chanced a glance over at David in the passenger’s seat, who was scrolling through social media on his phone, and wondered what was going through his head, how he was feeling. 

“I wonder what we’re having for dinner,” he said, fishing for something to talk about. He watched from the corner of his eye as David looked up and trained his gaze on him for a beat before responding.

“Mmm,” he mused, “I don’t know, but if last week’s meal is any indication, it’s going to be amazing. I, for one, am _very_ excited to be eating food that isn’t from the Cafe.” 

Patrick chuckled. “Oh, are the misshapen, freezer-burnt mozzarella sticks below your standards, David?” 

“ _So_ far below them. The mozzarella sticks can’t even see the bar from where they are,” David replied easily. 

Patrick snorted. “Maybe you should learn how to cook so you don’t have to subject yourself to that horror every day.” 

David paused, forcing Patrick to look over at him. “Okay, I _told_ you about the time my mom and I tried to make enchiladas, right? I haven’t gone back to Jocelyn and Roland’s house since, but I’m pretty sure their stove still has burnt pieces of processed cheese stuck to it.” 

“I could teach you,” Patrick offered, his mouth clearly moving faster than his brain was. 

David snorted. “I’d rather not make it onto Ray’s shit list, but thanks for the offer.” 

“Mhmm,” Patrick murmured, a smirk plastered onto his face.

Eventually, they made it to the house. Wielding a bottle of wine each, David and Patrick sauntered up to the door. 

“Wait,” David said right before Patrick pressed the doorbell. Patrick looked back at him askance. “Remember the rules?” 

Patrick offered him a smile. “I remember. Are we ready to do this?” he asked, recalling the day they opened the store for the very first time. The smile that graced David’s face told Patrick that the same thoughts had flitted through his head. 

“Ring the doorbell, Patrick.” 

The sound echoed through the house, and within minutes, Vivian’s tall frame appeared in the doorway, warm light from inside spilling out around her. 

“David, Patrick! You’re here! So glad you made the trip safely. Come on in,” she said, stepping back to let them across the threshold. 

“Thank you for having us back, Viv. It’s nice to see you,” Patrick said, proffering the bottle of red he’d been cradling in his elbow. 

“Yes, thank you,” David said warmly. “I was just telling Patrick on the way over here how excited I was to try your cooking again.” 

Viv laughed and took both bottles, waiting as they toed off their shoes and slid into the plush house slippers they’d used last time before she led them back to the kitchen.

“Hi, guys! How do you feel about cold soba noodles for dinner? It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” Ayami called from her place in front of the stove. 

“ _Very_ positive about that,” David said enthusiastically. 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Patrick asked.

“Wanna help me make the gyoza?” asked Viv from the dining room table, where she’d started folding a meat and vegetable mixture into delicate dumplings. 

“Um. I don’t think I could be trusted with that. All the filling would leak out of mine,” David said, eyeing Viv’s setup warily. 

She laughed good-naturedly and nudged the chair next to her with her foot. “I was no good at making dumplings before Ayami taught me either. Come sit, I’ll show you. It’s easy.” 

“Give it a shot,” Patrick said, leaning in to bump his shoulder against David’s. David looked over and studied the encouraging look on Patrick’s face before nodding and washing his hands at the kitchen sink. “Is there anything else that needs taking care of?” Patrick asked Ayami. 

“I’m all good here. This is a relatively low-maintenance dish. You can help with the gyoza!” 

Patrick grinned. “Great, I can do that.” 

He sidled up to the sink, pressing his body into David’s as they shared the faucet. He’d been this close to David before, been edging into his personal space all week, actually, but he still couldn’t control the full-body blush that rolled through him. This was just another thing, among the long list of things, that tangled together in his chest and kept him up at night. So much about this fake relationship pulled at strings in him he didn’t know he had, plucking away melodies that seemed distantly familiar, like songs from another life he was just now starting to remember. 

He exhaled, long and deep, trying to purge these confusing thoughts from his mind and focus on the task at hand. He sat next to David at the table and they awaited instructions.

“Okay,” Viv began, “so take a dumpling wrapper and hold it flat in your hand, then grab a small teaspoonful of the meat mixture. Don’t try to put down too much at once because the edges of the wrapper won’t stick together and it’ll fall apart in the pan.” 

Patrick watched as David attempted to follow her instructions, patting a small dollop of the mixture onto the wrapper in his other hand. Viv had spread the mixture out with her fingers, coaxing it into a kind of oval in the centre of the dumpling, and then put water from a bowl along the edge of the wrapper. David followed suit carefully. Patrick watched the line between David’s brows deepen as Viv folded the dough in half, trapping the mixture inside, and then folded one side of the seam in on itself repeatedly to make pleats. 

“Wait, I think I did it,” David said, examining the dumpling in his hand from all angles. His dumpling was less plump than Viv’s was, clearly underfilled so the seam wouldn’t fall open while it cooked, but he got the shape down perfectly. 

“That looks really good, David,” Patrick said. The pride that was ballooning in his chest had leaked out a little into his voice, and David shot him a winning smile.

“Wanna give it a shot, Patrick?” Viv asked, already halfway through her next dumpling. 

“Uh, yeah, okay,” Patrick replied. He observed David’s hands instead of Viv’s, partly because David was going at a much slower, more manageable pace than Viv was, and partly because David’s hands were a source of endless fascination for him. David had big, solid hands, but they had a nimble quality about them, gentle and graceful as they pinched dough into elegant creases. His own hands were dexterous enough, certainly—years of piano playing will do that. And they served him well now as he pressed filling into the thin wrapper, wet the edges of the dough, and folded them together. But it was almost hypnotic, watching David work like this, all careful concentration. He almost hadn’t registered when David started speaking.

“When did Ayami teach you how to do this?” David asked Viv. 

She chuckled and glanced up at her wife. “It was on one of our first dates in Japan, actually—maybe the third or fourth. She told me it was a test.”

“A test?” Patrick asked.

Ayami laughed and turned around, leaning back against the counter next to the stove. “My grandmother used to say that you can tell a lot about a person by the way they make dumplings. If they rip through the wrappers, they don’t know how to be gentle. If they go too fast and don’t seal the edges properly, they’re impatient and don’t know how to take things slowly, enjoy the more peaceful moments in life.” 

“That’s so profound,” David said with wonder in his voice. Patrick didn’t miss how his eyes slipped over Patrick’s small arrangement of dumplings. 

“Right, so you can imagine the kind of pressure I was under, trying to make perfect dumplings on a third date like my life depended on it,” Viv joked. 

“I think things turned out pretty well for you, though, no?” Ayami asked, a teasing smile playing on her lips. 

“I’d say so,” Viv agreed warmly. 

David jutted his bottom lip out. “You guys are so cute.” 

The women laughed. “You’re too sweet, David,” Viv said. 

“So, how did the plates do this week?” Ayami asked. She turned off the flame on the stove and sat down at the table to join the gyoza-making. 

“They’re doing _very_ well,” David said.

“Yeah, I think we’ve sold, what, 25 already? People are really interested,” said Patrick. 

“I’m so glad to hear it! We should start planning that sculpting class you were talking about on Monday. Give those sales a boost,” Ayami said.

“Oh, yeah, this would be a great time to do it. How’s next Saturday for you?” asked David.

“Viv and I are having dinner with her little sister that night, but I can swing by in the early afternoon to help you plan.”

“Perfect. I’ve already started sprucing up the courtyard a bit ahead of time. What kind of a set-up do you think you’ll need?”

Ayami went through her list, counting off buckets of modelling clay, rolls of contact paper, and gallons of water. They talked it through together as the gyoza mixture in the bowl dwindled, estimating headcounts and considering refreshments. Patrick and Viv chimed in a few times, offering up their own suggestions, but mostly, Patrick was content just watching David’s mind work, and it seemed Viv felt the same way about Ayami.

Eventually, they’d made all the gyoza they could with the amount of mixture Ayami had made, and while Viv cleaned up the dumpling-making station to finally set the table for dinner, Ayami taught the boys how to cook the gyoza.

“First, they have to fry in some oil, just about that much,” Ayami said over the nonstick pan as she poured just enough oil to sparsely cover the bottom. “They’ll develop a nice crispy texture on the flat side, and when they’re golden brown, we’ll add a bit of water and put the lid on the pan to steam them.”

Ayami demonstrated on the first batch for them, showing them what the bottoms of the dumplings were supposed to look like before steaming them for a few minutes.

“That seems easy enough. I think we can handle the rest,” said Patrick.

The corners of David’s mouth pulled down into a grimace. “Mmm, can we though?”

Patrick laughed. “I promise not to let you overcook the gyoza, David.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” David muttered under his breath.

Patrick chuckled and ran a comforting hand down David’s back. David moved to stir them around in the pan with the tongs Ayami gave them, but Patrick put a hand out to stop him.

“No, wait, don’t move them around yet. You’ll disrupt the Maillard reaction.”

David looked back at him, bewildered. “ _Maillard_ reaction?”

“It’s what makes fried food turn golden brown,” Patrick said simply. David shook his head and spread his arms out, letting his body ask the question for him. Patrick laughed. “My mom watched a lot of cooking shows while I was growing up. I picked up _some_ things.”

David studied his face, looking at once amazed and perplexed. “Okay, who _are_ you?”

Patrick gave him a cheeky grin. “Aren’t you glad you get to find out?”

David’s lips twisted up like they were trying to wring the smile out of themselves and he turned back to the pan, careful not to jostle the dumplings too much. Patrick did his best to dispense cooking advice without being overbearing, and if the diminishing number of times David shot back a snappy line was any indication, Patrick was probably doing an okay job at it. 

“Hey, at least I’m making good on the offer I made in the car,” Patrick said to break the silence. 

“Mhmm. Mhmm. Risky behaviour on your part, I think? Doing that here? But. We haven’t burned anything down yet, so,” David said, scrunching his shoulders up by his ears. Patrick chuckled and slid his hand across the small of David’s back. David seemed to be getting used to the casual touch now, and for a second, Patrick could have sworn that he almost leaned into it.

Patrick glanced over at the dining table, where Ayami and Viv were mixing together dipping sauces for the food, lost in their own quiet conversation. He smiled at them, looked at their heads tilting towards each other, watched as they managed never to break contact as they reached over each other to pick up sesame oil, soy sauce, mirin. He couldn’t lie and say that it didn’t look appealing; that kind of intimacy was hard to come by, and he was a little jealous of the ease and confidence with which they moved through life just because they had each other. He looked at David, traced the line of his profile with his eyes, and thought about how David was supposed to be that for him in this relationship they’ve fabricated: a fountainhead of comfort and assurance and stability. Though they’ve only been faking this for a week, Patrick thought maybe...

David froze, a movement so tangible that it pulled Patrick out of his thoughts. “Uh, what’s happening right now?” David whispered.

“Wh—?”

“Your hand,” David murmured with an eyebrow raised. 

Patrick looked down and saw that while he was spaced out, he’d let his hand fall farther down than was...entirely appropriate.

“Oh, sorry,” Patrick whispered back, pulling his hand away immediately. 

“No, it’s uh. It’s okay. You can...um. In—in my back pocket.”

Patrick squinted at him. “What?” 

David huffed out a breath as he moved cooked dumplings over to the paper-towel-lined plate next to the stove. “It’s from _Sixteen Candles_. It’s, uh, a couple thing, I guess. You can...put your hand. In my back pocket.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows and let the corners of his mouth tip up into a smile. “Yeah, okay.” He carefully slid his hand into David’s back left pocket. He drank in the face David made just then, like he was carefully trying to school his features into a neutral expression but failing miserably. His mouth twisted with the effort of it.

Pretending to be with David was a baffling experience at times—equal parts thrilling and comforting, like it was second-nature to Patrick to step into David’s space, reach for him when he could, and to _want_ to do that, most of all. And then, when David allowed it, it felt like a jolt of adrenaline, like Patrick had gotten away scot-free after doing something dangerous.

They ended up serving a small mountain of gyoza once every batch had been cooked, and, coupled with the large bowl of soba and dipping sauce, dinner turned into a feast. The soba had been chilled after cooking, giving the buckwheat noodles a pleasantly firm, chewy texture. Ayami served it with a dipping sauce made of dashi, soy sauce, and mirin, with finely grated ginger and sliced green onions on top. The freshly-cooked noodles balanced out the strong flavours of the sauce, and the gyoza, served with sesame oil, soy sauce, and ponzu, brought some warmth and crunch to the course. They were all quiet at first, more preoccupied with eating the lush dinner in front of them than chatting, but as the meal wore on, they managed to sneak snippets of conversation in between bites. Maybe it was the home-cooked food, or the laborious process of making it, but it felt less like a celebratory work dinner and more like a meal between friends, and so conversation strayed from the perfunctory and the business-related. 

They shared more about their families, their lives before they made it to the area. As much as Patrick enjoyed hearing the women’s stories about Japan and Vancouver, he was a little nervous about having to explain his own history. He didn’t feel ready to reveal the whole, sordid truth about himself yet, least of all to David. He managed to get by with stories about his childhood in a suburb of Edmonton, though, recounting tales of legendary hockey wins and rehearsal stories from his days in community theatre. 

Later, after they all convened in the living room to sip large cups of pomegranate green tea with honey to bring the food down, Patrick headed back into the kitchen to start on the dishes.

“Let me help you,” Viv said, jumping up to join him. Ayami and David protested immediately, but the pair insisted that they stay seated, enjoy each other’s company, and leave the dishes to them. 

“I’ll wash, you dry?” Patrick asked, taking his place in front of the sink. 

“Yeah, great,” she responded, and they began to clean up after dinner in companionable silence. After a few dishes had been cleaned and dried, Viv spoke up again. “So, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”

Patrick spared her a glance before turning the tap off and wiping his hands dry. “Should I be worried?”

She snorted. “No, no, it’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted to tell you that it’s Ayami’s and my 20th anniversary next month—”

“Congratulations!” Patrick said.

“—Thank you, and I’m putting together a surprise party to celebrate.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet! I’m so happy for the both of you. 20 years, that’s impressive.” 

Viv shot him a kind smile. “Thank you, Patrick. We’d love to have you and David there.” 

“Oh!” Patrick said. “Uh—let me talk to David first. I don’t want to agree without talking to him yet. You know.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Here, let me give you my number. You can get back to me.” She pulled a post-it and pen off of the magnetic note set on the fridge and scrawled her number down on it. He accepted it, tucking the slip of paper into his back pocket.

“Thanks. I’ll text and let you know. But, for the record, I’d love to come. We both would.” 

“I’m glad,” Viv said. “At least my plotting to get you alone to talk to you about this won’t be for nothing.” 

Patrick shot her an incredulous look. “Yeah? You plotted for me to _volunteer_ to do the dishes?” 

She grinned. “I was banking on you to be the sweet Canadian boy you seem to be and offer to do it. Plan B was to invent a small emergency.” 

“Good thing we didn’t have to resort to that,” Patrick said with a laugh.

“Right?” she replied. “Okay, sweet moment over, back to dishwashing.” 

Patrick turned the tap back on and started scrubbing at a pot while Viv connected her phone to the Bluetooth speakers and started playing some music to fill the silence. He was grateful for the opportunity to sit with his thoughts for a while. When she’d told him that they’d been together 20 years, it struck a chord in him that he didn’t know how to interpret. 

It reminded him of the day in 2005 when Canada legalised same-sex marriage nationwide. He was only 18 then, on that day in July, and had just finished his freshman year at university. He and Rachel had been on one of their breaks, and when he’d come home after a shift at Rose Video that day and heard the news, he’d felt his stomach leap up into his heart and had to hole up in his room for the night. 

He’d seen the footage taken at various city halls across the country of the first same-sex couples to be married that day, the photos and videos rolling across his TV screen of couples looking so impossibly happy, so _relieved_ , like they’d gotten a reprieve from the battles they’d been fighting all their lives, and he couldn’t stop the tears from falling then. His throat had closed up and he choked back sobs, not wanting his parents to hear, and he let himself soak up the moment. There was pride waking in his chest, but it came with some heaviness, something he couldn’t quite name then. 

At the time, he thought maybe he’d just been exhausted from working all day, emotionally wrung out from his whirlwind of a year at school and from this break in his four-year-long relationship. But this same feeling had turned up again a handful of times since then, like when he’d met LGBT couples with similarly-impressive anniversaries, or when same-sex marriage was legalised in the States in 2015. And here, now. Listening to Viv’s and Ayami’s stories, hearing about the beautiful, bittersweet affair of their wedding, two months after their marriage became legal in this country. The feeling rose in him, mounting to a point, and he wanted to sit down and sort through it, pick it apart so it wouldn’t feel so big for his body, but all he could do was wash the remains of their meal together off the ceramic. But, if there was anything that separated this moment from the others, it was that, in his house, with these people who were quickly building themselves room in his heart, he felt closer than he ever had before to untangling the confusing feeling that had been sitting in his soul all this time.

After the dishes were done and they’d said their goodbyes for the night, accepting the bag of leftovers Viv and Ayami had insisted they take home with them, Patrick and David settled into the car and started on the long drive home. Patrick had surreptitiously texted Viv during the commotion to ask for the details of the party and she’d gotten back to him just as quickly.

“So,” Patrick began, “Viv and I had a nice chat while we were doing the dishes together.” 

“Hmm?” David responded absently as he focused on the road, ever the careful driver.

“She invited us to this surprise party she’s throwing for Ayami. They’re celebrating their 20th anniversary,” Patrick said, watching for a reaction.

“Oh,” David said softly, his face melting into a soft smile. “That’s amazing. When is it?” 

Patrick double-checked the message on his phone. “Saturday, June 3rd, 7:30 p.m,” he recited. “They’re hosting it at the Woodbridge Manor. Looks like we’d have to dress up a little. How should I RSVP?”

David hummed. “Sounds like it’s going to be fun. I’d have to consult my calendar? But, um… I can probably be there,” he said, mouth twisting into a smile. 

Patrick chuckled. “And you know we’d have to go as dates, right? Just… to be clear?” He was careful to let a teasing tone colour the question. He noticed David’s knuckles whiten by half a shade on the steering wheel, but he didn’t say anything.

David snorted. “Right, yeah. It’s still a yes. From me.” 

“Okay, David,” Patrick said. “We’ll go.” 

David nodded. The rest of the drive home was quiet. David dropped himself off at the motel, waving goodbye as Patrick slid out of the car to get into the driver’s seat and get himself home. Patrick’s head felt cloudy when he stepped into the shower that night to wash the day off of himself and he resolved to go on a hike the next day. 

At the early hour of 6 a.m., before the already-sleepy town blinked itself awake, Patrick was on the trail, gravel crunching under his feet, satisfying. This was far from his first time hiking this path; he’d come at least twice a week since he moved to Schitt’s Creek, maybe more since he’d gotten into business with David, and his feet navigated the rocky earth with a practised ease. 

This week had been so busy, and so emotionally taxing on top of that, that he hadn’t gotten the chance to get out on the trail before today. He was glad for the opportunity now to sort through everything that had happened, to find his way through his life that, just 6 days ago, had been turned completely upside down. 

He’d enjoyed it, was the thing. He liked drawing himself to David’s side, being _allowed_ to. As he picked past a swatch of branches, he thought back to their second day together, how the stubble on David’s cheek felt under his lips as he pressed a hello kiss to his skin. He remembered how David’s hand fit comfortably in his as they made their way to the cafe for dinner, how his palm felt soft against Patrick’s baseball calluses, how his knuckles were like well-loved stones, warm and smooth, under the comforting brush of Patrick’s thumb. That Thursday, David had the morning off, but Patrick was a rule-follower and brought David a to-go cup of coffee as a surprise and was rewarded with the sight of David looking comfortable and less-than-put-together. His hair was still sleep-rumpled, sticking up every which way, and he donned a plain white shirt and close-fitting joggers, and Patrick couldn’t help but rake his eyes over David’s body. He remembered wanting to fold himself up into David then, feel the warmth of David’s bare arms up close, feel the lines of his form pressed up against Patrick’s own. Patrick had tried to choke out something light and teasing, and he didn’t even remember now what he said, but even to his own ears it sounded forced. 

It was a study in thrills, faking a relationship with David, but every night that week, he’d gone home and felt conflict rip through his every limb. What were these _feelings_? And how was it ethical to have them for his _business partner_ when he wasn’t supposed to have them in the first place? They were nothing like the comforting bubbling of affection that he’d felt before—for Rachel or anyone else—that had the viscosity of creamy squash soup on a cold day. These feelings were bright and new and zippy, like the sour tingle of pink lemonade running all the way up and down his body, cooling him off in the heat of summer. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it while holed up in his room at Ray’s, staring up at the white ceiling.

His thoughts swirled through him on his hike up to Rattlesnake Point now, and when he finally reached the peak, he looked out at the never-ending green below him. Here, where his lungs could luxuriate in the new air, he felt himself reset. All the cloudiness in his head and his heart had melted off of him, left behind in the thicket of plant life, and finally things lined up. The world cracked open beneath him, revealing secrets he’d hid from himself or dismissed as misunderstandings. They were real, and true, and they made up an identity he never even thought could fit him before, but now that it stared him in the face, he knew. 

Patrick Brewer was gay. He was gay, and he had very real, true, deep feelings for David Rose. He whispered the words aloud to himself in the close silence of the mountaintop, and he felt the dust that had settled quietly onto his bones clean themselves off, leaving him feeling polished and raw and brand new. He liked David the way he’d never liked anyone else before. He liked being with him—or, at least, pretending to—and for the first time, under the canopy cover, he let himself wonder what it would be like to _really_ be with him. For the first time, he let himself want it, fully and unabashedly. For the first time, he let himself hope that he’d get to find out. 

He sat with all of it for a minute, leaning back against a rock, tracing the outlines of the leaves above him with his eyes. Patrick breathed and let himself enjoy the freshness of the moment, like he’d been given new skin and it was learning the sinews of him with every inhale. He absorbed every second of it. 

The walk back down the mountain was easier than it ever was, and he felt himself get lighter with every step, letting gravity do the work of pulling him back down to Earth. 

When he returned to work on Monday, he felt anxiety twist his stomach into knots. He didn’t know how the realisation he’d made over the weekend would affect how he acted around David, whether David would figure him out before he’d get the chance to tell him. But then David walked into the store and pressed a kiss to his cheek, easy as anything, and the knot in his stomach loosened just so. 

David had drawn up plans for the in-store pottery event they’d been talking about hosting, and in between helping customers and restocking product, Patrick listened to him wax lyrical about the sparkling wine they’d serve, the arrangement of the tables in the courtyard, the string lights they’d hang across the fence. Patrick watched the light catch on David’s rings as his hands moved with a flourish, watched the corners of his lips tip up as he described a particularly genius design idea, and he felt warmth bloom in his chest because of it. 

“It honestly shouldn’t take us long to set it up, since we’re just using battery-powered lights and hanging them on Command strips that I want to hide in the leaves of the fence. So, I think...if we spend, like, a couple of hours every day just devoted to this? We could host the event next week.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “I think it’d be smart to give it another week, though. Just for, um, marketing. Purposes.” 

David looked down at his notes and nodded. “Okay, yeah. We could—we could do that. It would give us more time to order everything, anyway. Save money on shipping.” 

“Two weeks from now, then?” 

The corners of David’s mouth pulled back into a lopsided smile and he nodded. “Yeah. Two weeks from now.” 

Those two weeks flew by. Ayami’s plates brought more traffic to the store—they made for really nice tourist gifts, apparently—and preparations for the pottery class took up more and more space in their brains, so it felt like someone had hit fast forward on Patrick’s life. Being with David kept getting easier, though, like they’d hit a routine with this fake relationship, and all the while, the feelings that percolated in the back of Patrick’s heart felt more and more familiar, like everything was supposed to be this way all along. Every day, more of the walls they’d put up between them in the beginning crumbled away, and though they’d never broken any of the rules of the contract, it felt, at least to Patrick, more real than it had on that first day at Ayami and Viv’s house.

When the day of the pottery class finally arrived, David was a bundle of nerves. They’d been pushing the class on social media all week and tickets were completely sold out. The courtyard was ready for it, had been for a few days now, but David still spent most of the morning making sure the lights were working and that the buckets of modelling clay hadn’t all dried up. 

“David,” Patrick said, stepping in front of him after he’d come in from the courtyard to check that the contact paper hadn’t blown away for the third time that day, “everything is going to be fine. I promise.” 

David’s face scrunched up and he tossed his head back, his shoulders creeping up towards his ears. “I know, it’s just—I want things to be perfect. This whole event is my _baby_ and I feel like…” He cut himself off with a groan. 

“You feel like…?” Patrick pressed. They did that now, pressed each other when things were a little too difficult to express. It felt like being trusted with something fragile when Patrick managed to get David to explain an anxiety or reveal something about himself. But Patrick always tried his best to take care of it, take care of him.

David let out a harsh breath. “I feel like… if it doesn’t go well, Ayami will pull out, and then all of this, everything, will be… for nothing.” He wrapped his arms around himself protectively, like the wrong word would make him crumble into dust. 

“David,” Patrick began carefully, “you’ve planned this event _so_ well, didn’t leave a single detail unaccounted for. It’s going to go perfectly. And even if it doesn’t—” David let out a pitiful whimper at that “—then we will figure it out. But Ayami loves us, and her products have been doing so well here. She’s not going to pull out. She’s also, you know, contractually obligated to keep selling her plates with us.” 

David gnawed on his bottom lip and his eyes tracked all over Patrick’s face, like he was looking for something that would make him think Patrick didn’t mean everything he’d just said. “Okay,” he murmured finally. 

Ayami arrived at 4:30 to start setting up her own workspace at the very back of the courtyard. David’s anxiety seemed to ebb when she walked in looking as sunny and at ease as ever. 

“I’m _so_ excited. I’m just going to be showing them how to sculpt simple things, like saucers and mugs, but I think it’s going to be a great class,” she told them as she set her purse down in the backroom.

“It’s going to be fantastic,” Patrick said, shooting David a meaningful glance. David offered up a small smile. 

They led her to the courtyard to show her everything they’d spent the past two weeks on. There were four rows of tables with a path straight down between them, like an aisle, that led to Ayami’s own table in the very back. Each table was long enough for six sculptors, with two giant tubs of modelling clay at each end and three big bowls of water. David had put down white canvas tablecloths to match the seat covers on each of the folding chairs, and on top of the tables ran a long sheet of brown contact paper to protect the tables. Each place had a small slab of marble, borrowed from Ayami’s studio, that the sculptors could mold their pieces on. Off to the right, there was a table set to match the rest, but instead of six slabs of marble, there were large tin buckets of ice with bottles of sparkling white chilling in them and rows of wine glasses sitting neatly next to them. 

“I’m going to wait till just before we start to put out the hors d’oeuvres,” David said quietly, playing with his rings. Patrick noticed and grabbed a hand, twining his fingers in with David’s. David looked down at their hands tangled together and shot Patrick another small smile before squeezing. 

Patrick grinned and squeezed back.

“David, it’s _beautiful_ ,” Ayami said, whirling to face them. “It’s amazing that you put this together in such a short amount of time.” 

“To call it a passion project would be an understatement, Ayami. We’ve both been so excited to organise this,” Patrick said. 

Ayami clapped her hands together and smiled. “Well, then, let’s get started!” 

Once she’d set up her work station and David and Patrick put out the food along with the store’s best red wine, they all took their places in the front of the store to lead the guests out into the courtyard. The pride that ballooned in Patrick’s chest at seeing how amazed they all were at the renovated space was paralleled only by the day they first opened the store. Just like that day, Patrick and David shot pleased glances at each other, silent missives of joy sent along a wire, as they mingled with the guests and poured wine. 

They all took their seats when Ayami called for the sculpting to start. There were a couple of no-shows, which was to be expected, but the seats were paid for and David and Patrick happily sat in on the lesson. 

Ayami instructed her students to take a handful of clay and, with wet hands, knead it until it was soft before starting to form its final shape. She’d started with the saucer and demonstrated how to round a piece of clay out into an even, flat disc before pinching off another piece to act as the saucer’s base. She rolled the smaller piece out into a thin cylinder and arranged it onto the bottom of her saucer into a circle before wetting her fingers and smoothing the edges of the base in to bond with the disc. 

The mugs were a bit more involved and took more actual “sculpting” than the saucers did, and more than once, the handle on David’s little mug fell off. Patrick watched from across the courtyard as he laughed and murmured to the older woman next to him before going back and trying to fix it with wet fingers and a determined look on his face. 

Patrick stared down at his own mug, which was a little lopsided and just this side of too thick, and kept working at it, fingers sliding up the sides to thin them out, delicately ghosting over the handle to mould it more securely onto the mug. He loved working with his hands; as a kid, he and his dad built intricate sandcastles on their annual trip to the coast, and as he grew older, he preferred taking on DIY projects himself rather than paying for a carpenter to put something together. It cleared his head, gave him precious time to think and enjoy the moment, much like hikes did. But very rarely did he get to do anything with his hands anymore that required having a gentle touch. 

Satisfied with his work, he looked over to David’s table and saw that he was still trying to keep his mug from collapsing in on itself. Patrick rose from his seat to wash his hands off at the makeshift sink they’d set up near the door and took his phone out of his pocket. He crept up near Ayami’s table and took a candid of David. He was smiling down at his mug, fingers glistening with wet clay, looking pleased and accomplished. Sunlight framed the picture, backlighting David and making him look heaven-sent. Patrick certainly felt it was apt. 

If he hadn’t met David, he’d never have been introduced to this lovelier, more colourful version of life. Here, the spreadsheets he put together _meant something_ to him, weren’t just mindless caverns of organised data that were just barely important in the grand scheme of things. Here, he spent his days interacting with the community that welcomed him into its arms, sharing with it beautiful things that were handcrafted with care. He led a small life here, but it was a valuable one, one that made him feel right in his own skin. Patrick thought about how he’d been searching for years for a soft place to land, and with a handshake and a meeting in an office at Ray’s, David had finally given him one. 

And telling him all of this...it couldn’t just be a pipe dream for Patrick anymore. He had to make it real. Patrick bit his lip and came to his resolution. He made the photo he’d just taken of David into his phone background, and in the waning sunlight, watched as David laughed with his guests and made something good, something real, out of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "Everything Changes"


	4. come out of hiding

Patrick’s tie wouldn’t hang straight. He adjusted it in the rearview mirror for what felt like the millionth time in 10 minutes, but it kept catching on the buttons of his white dress shirt. Patrick wasn’t a tie person in general—he thought having his shirt buttoned up completely made him look like he had a small head—but tonight, for Ayami and Viv’s 20th anniversary party, he had to pull out all the stops. 

He’d wrestled the one tie he brought with him during his move, a gift from his dad before he graduated senior high, out of the back of his drawer and had it dry cleaned along with his favourite suit. Now, he fidgeted with the oxblood tie, willing it to lay flat so he could focus on the million other things that were making bullets of nervous energy ping around in his body.

In the handful of weeks since the celebratory dinner at the Moris’, the symphony of emotion—elation, affection, anxiety—that constantly played in the background of his mind had gotten progressively louder, colouring his every word and action. Patrick figured that, by now, David had probably caught wind of the very real feelings he had for him. It was so obvious, even to Patrick, that David’s silence on the matter either signalled that he didn’t feel the same way and cared too much about Patrick as his business partner to reject him, or that David himself was too nervous to reveal his own real feelings. If he was being honest, Patrick didn’t like those odds. 

If insurance companies offered coverage for broken hearts, he would have had to pay an astronomical premium to insure his own. And apparently, that premium was paid out by doing things like embarrassing himself in a suit that was a hair too tight and dealing with the storm of nerves in his gut that crashed together every time he so much as looked at David.

Still, he wanted to have a good time tonight. He wanted _David_ to have a good time tonight, most of all, and if he didn’t lose his nerve, maybe he could finally make his feelings clear. Hopefully. If things went well, you know, at the party.

Patrick had parked right in front of David’s door and had finally steeled himself to go out there and knock when the door swung open and David slipped out. Patrick watched, awestruck, as David smiled and gave him a friendly wave before coming over to the passenger side. Patrick’s eyes fell down David’s body as he walked, fixating on the red roses embroidered onto his suit jacket next to each lapel. They popped against the inky black of the rest of his suit, and he’d kept to the classic white-shirt-black-tie look for tonight. He absolutely _gleamed_.

“Hi,” David said softly after sliding into the passenger seat. 

“Hi. I was gonna come knock on your door and, uh, walk you to the car. Open the door for you. Gentlemanly...stuff.” 

David’s lips pushed themselves all the way to one side, like he was trying to contain a smile. “I saw the headlights and figured I missed a text from you, so. I came out.” 

“Oh.”

“Do you wanna do it over?” David asked wryly.

Patrick barked out a nervous laugh. “No, that’s okay.” Yes, he did. “Uh, let’s get going. We’re running a little late.” 

“Okay.” 

Patrick finally remembered to plug his aux cord into his car, so he put David in charge of navigating and choosing the music. Naturally, that meant that over the hour-long drive, Patrick got an earful of the divas’ greatest hits. 

There was no discussion of the rules this time, no tentative rehashing of the contract they’d signed a month and a half ago, and it put Patrick at ease to think that David hadn’t thought to bring it up, that it had become so easy and natural by now that bringing it up would seem strange or redundant. 

The parking lot was packed by the time they pulled up, and they strolled in, hand in hand, to find dozens of people milling about, drinks in hand. The venue was beautiful, all shiny hardwood floors and crystal chandeliers that looked vintage and probably actually were. The tables were dressed in cream-coloured cloths, and each one was topped with a small mason jar of wildflowers with twine tied around the rim. The rustic touch took nothing away from the classy vibe that Viv had chosen. 

David and Patrick sat a table near the dance floor, where they found a few familiar faces that they’d met through the store. Patrick noticed how _on_ David was tonight, marvelled quietly at how easily he started up small talk with these acquaintances, and he briefly wondered if this was a vestige from David’s past life as a gallerist or if it had come with the territory of growing up rich. Ultimately, though, it didn’t matter where this particular skill had come from: much like any of the quirks (read: nuances) of David’s personalities that Patrick had come to discover, he found that it only made him like David more. 

He glanced around the room and took it all in while David discussed the new moisturiser they’d started stocking, and he noticed that the buffet was open. Patrick nudged David a little and nodded toward the table piled with food. David spared no time in excusing himself from the conversation and dragging Patrick along to fill their plates. 

Like the meals Patrick and David had shared with the Moris, the buffet at the party was _sumptuous_. There were trays of arancini and marinara sitting next to chicken francese over pasta, and the entire rest of the table was covered in fish. Grilled fish, calamari, salted fish, you name it. Patrick wasn’t surprised at how much of it there was, considering Ayami’s upbringing, and he thought it was sweet of Viv to lean into it so much. 

He and David fell in line and piled their plates with arancini and pasta and as many different kinds of fish as could fit before returning to their table. 

A tap at the mic called their attention to the small stage in the front of the room before they could dig in. Viv and Ayami were up there—David and Patrick learned that they’d missed the big reveal, which apparently was tearful and very sweet, and they were sad to have missed it—looking like the picture of elegance. Ayami wore a black and white geometric dress with sharp, structured cape sleeves. It fell right above the knee on her short frame, and she’d paired it with black pointed-toe heels. Viv was clad in a navy suit jacket with matching slacks that looked at once tasteful and shockingly sexy on her. Her hair was curly and feminine, lending a touch of softness to the angular silhouette of her suit, and she’d worn fire engine red patent leather oxfords with her ensemble. Patrick had gotten so used to seeing them in everyday wear, which tended to be made up of solid-coloured shirts and worn jeans, that these red-carpet-ready looks absolutely stunned him. A quick glance at David’s face told Patrick that he was just as astonished.

“Careful, David, they’re married women,” Patrick murmured with a nudge. He laughed at the playfully exasperated look David shot his way.

“Hi everyone,” Viv began. “Thank you again for coming. If you haven’t gone to get food yet, please do. For those of you who missed my opening spiel—yes, _David and Patrick_ , we saw you walking in 20 minutes late, don’t think you got away with it—”

Patrick watched the blush creep up David’s neck and was so endeared by it that he forgot to be embarrassed about being called out. 

“—We’re serving this beautiful Italian meal to commemorate our honeymoon in Milan. The Italians in the audience have probably figured out that this is a remix on the Feast of the Seven Fishes. Before you say anything, I know it’s usually eaten on Christmas Eve—no need to tattle to the Pope. You all know that Ayami is a Japanese immigrant and that means she grew up eating fish with every meal, so it _is_ in part a celebration of that, but also—being with her is like waking up on Christmas morning every day, so I thought it was appropriate.”

The audience cooed at that, and cheers erupted when Ayami laughed and stepped forward to plant a kiss on her wife. Viv returned to the mic with a chuckle.

“If you were at our wedding, you’d know that the vows we made then were a million years long, so I’ll try to make this...shorter.” She took a deep breath and turned slightly to face Ayami. “If you’d have told me, when I was 14 and in the closet in a small town outside Vancouver, that I’d be standing here today celebrating _20 years_ with my beautiful, intelligent, creative wife...well, she wouldn’t have believed you at first. But then she’d be in such awe of this relationship.” She took Ayami’s hand in hers. “The past 20 years have not been without their difficulties, but it has been an absolute privilege to get through every valley and celebrate every peak with you. You are the _love of my life_ , and I love you more and more every day. I still don’t know how it’s possible for me to do that, but you have a knack for making impossible things seem possible. Thank _fucking god_ for you, Ayami. I would marry you over and over again, every day.” 

Ayami sniffled just loudly enough for the mic to pick it up and she moved into her wife’s space and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Glued to Viv’s side, Ayami took up the mic. 

“I don’t know how I’m going to follow that, but I’ll do my best,” she said, her voice sounding watery and full of love. “I met Viv in Japan while trying to rescue her from buying some severely overpriced salmon. And even though we give thanks for every meal, I have never been so grateful for a piece of salmon in my life.” 

The audience chuckled at that.

“Sometimes, Viv, I look at you and remember what it was like to be 25 and so in love. Because it’s not that different from being 45 and so in love. Somehow, after everything we’ve gone through, after thinking we would never be able to marry each other because of systematic homophobia and then finally, _finally_ being allowed to call you my wife three years after we promised to spend our lives together, after all the struggle, the loss, the heartache we’ve seen each other through—I love you just as much as I did when we were young and clueless and navigating a new relationship on the other side of the world. In fact, I love you _more_ now, and if I make the impossible possible for you, then you do the same for me.” She took a deep, shuddery breath, collecting herself. “There are lots of ways to tell someone you love them. In any language. You can say ‘I love you,’ or you can say ‘ _daisuki_ ,’ or you can hold them after a long day, or you can make breakfast for them, or you can remind them to take their vitamins. In Japanese, we save the word ‘ _aishiteru_ for the ones we love the most, the ones we can’t live without. I’ve said this word to you before, but on this special night, to celebrate 20 beautiful years together, it bears repeating: _aishiteru_ , Vivian. I love you. And I can’t wait to keep loving you tomorrow, and next year, and 20 years from now.” 

Patrick cheered along with the rest of the audience as Ayami and Viv kissed again. It was hard to breathe, hearing all that, celebrating such sweet and stable love between two incredibly kind and wonderful people. It filled Patrick up with a joy and a sense of pride that he’d struggled to name before he realised who he was, but all that struggle felt like water under the bridge now. Now, he was looking at two people who’d been through the same thing, seen many of the hardships he himself had been too scared and confused to face, and come out of all of it so deeply and happily in love. It made him feel like it was possible for him, that with the right person, he could be just as fearless. And as he drank in the awe on David’s face, the raw emotion that coloured every inch of it, he felt that he could be brave for David. 

“God, that was—” David began, sounding a little misty himself.

“I know,” Patrick murmured. 

Viv leaned back into the mic to encourage everyone to eat, drink, and dance, and they wasted no time in finally trying everything on their overflowing plates. Eventually, after swiping food from each other’s plates—a feat Patrick had never gotten away with before, when it came to David, and he felt a little smug about it for the rest of the meal—and finally getting to greet Viv and Ayami when they’d finished eating, the music started getting louder, and the dance floor started filling up with people.

They joined the crowd just as Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours” started blasting through the speakers. Patrick had never been a _dancer_ , so to speak, in that if he wasn’t being told how to move along to music, his body would just...decide on its own, in increasingly awkward ways. But he couldn’t bring himself to be self-conscious about his dancing now, not when David was close and smiling and pulling some silly moves on his own. 

“What is this dancing?!” David yelled over the music as Patrick tried to copy a trumpet player from a 1950s rock ensemble. 

Patrick laughed. “You’re one to talk! What was this?” He emulated a move David had done earlier, which looked suspiciously like he was trying to start a wave. David simply laughed and shook his head in response. 

They danced till they were out of breath and then some, moving along to every hit, getting ever closer as each song played. Finally, the upbeat song they’d been dancing to ended and transitioned smoothly into “At Last” by Etta James. David immediately turned to leave, and Patrick’s stomach jumped into his throat.

“Where are you going?” he asked. 

David looked back at him, wide-eyed. “Um, I—I thought you wouldn’t want to—”

“No, I want to. Slow dance with me?” Patrick asked, holding out hope and his hand. David looked down at the hand and seemed to come to a decision. He stepped in close, cupping the juncture where Patrick’s neck met his shoulder and clasping Patrick’s other hand in his own. 

They danced together quietly, and Patrick’s body lit up at the places where David was touching him. He felt light as air, and the combination of Etta’s smooth vocals and David’s enticing cologne was almost enough for him to have an out-of-body experience. He’d never been this close to David for this long, feeling the warmth of his skin through his suit, basking in the smell of honey, cedar, and lime that was enveloping him, tracing the details of David’s face up close. It was almost too much, and Patrick had to lean in and rest his head on David’s shoulder so the emotion that he knew was written all over his face wouldn’t expose him. 

“Are you having fun?” David murmured, the silk in his voice settling deep into Patrick’s bones. 

“I am,” Patrick breathed. “Are you?” He felt David nod. “Thank you for coming with me tonight. I know you had to, but…”

“No, I wanted to,” David said softly. 

Patrick looked up at him, starstruck. There was so much twisting together inside of him, so much anxiety and excitement and affection, and—love. That was it. There was nothing else to describe it. He was in love with David, and looking at him now, surrounded by the warmth and celebration in the room, Patrick almost said it. But then he saw a wall come down behind David’s eyes, and he felt him put a few inches of space between them, and he knew that there was more that needed to be said between them first. 

The song wound to a close, and David extricated himself from Patrick’s arms. “I just, um—need to get some air,” he said, before walking away. 

Patrick was left dumbstruck on the dance floor, and he wanted so badly to go after him, but all this time together had taught him that, sometimes, he had to wait David out. Sometimes David needed space and Patrick needed to give it to him, and he was going to be as respectful of that now as he had always been. 

He resolved to grab a beer at the bar, and if David wasn’t back by the time he finished it, he’d go looking for him. As he leaned against the bar and took slow sips from the bottle, he watched the crowd on the dance floor sway along to the music. He’d always been interested in other people, how all their individual paths had led them to where they were, how his life was entwined with theirs in this very moment. He watched as they tucked themselves into their partners, traded loving looks as Sam Cooke warbled through the speakers, and he understood what each of them were feeling. It was like taking that first sip of tea on a cold morning—like warmth radiating from the center of his body, spreading out towards his fingertips, making his nerves crackle awake. It was the same feeling he got when he saw David every morning, or when David was feeling particularly affectionate. It felt a lot like finding a home in someone you’d never expected to find a home in, and basking in the slow electricity of it. 

He couldn’t enjoy the feeling now, though, knowing that something was wrong, that something had struck a nerve in David that Patrick didn’t know how to soothe yet. He watched the clock on the wall behind the bar and willed himself to take slower sips of his drink, trying his level best to control himself enough to give David time. But his anxieties helped him find the bottom of the beer bottle, and in the 10 minutes that had passed, David still hadn’t returned. So Patrick set out to find him. 

He stepped out of the ballroom and weaved through the lobby of the manor, stepping quickly into empty rooms on the off chance that he’d find David in one of them. Twenty fruitless minutes later, Patrick finally gave up on finding David on his own and decided to ask for help. When he stopped to ask the receptionist near the front if they’d seen a man in a suit with roses on it, he tried not to sound as halfway-hysterical with worry as he felt. They directed Patrick towards the back doors, saying he’d booked it to the courtyard about half an hour earlier. Patrick breathed out his gratitude and made a beeline for the doors. 

The courtyard was beautiful: it was a big, leafy garden lit up with string bulbs, and four stone paths from each corner led back to a round gazebo in the center. Patrick made out David’s hunched figure sitting on the bench inside it, and he jogged over. 

David looked up when he arrived, and Patrick could tell, even in the dim light, that David had been crying. 

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping forward carefully. 

“Hi. I’m sorry for running off,” David murmured. 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Patrick returned. “Can I sit?” 

David nodded jerkily. Patrick walked delicately over to David’s other side and sat next to him on the bench. 

“Um, I—I think I need to go,” David said. Patrick so badly wanted to wrap him up in his arms, solve whatever it was that was making him feel like this, but he didn’t dare. 

“Okay,” Patrick said with a sigh. “Let me just say our goodbyes to Viv and Ayami. Meet me at the car, okay? I’ll take you home.” 

“Thank you,” David said, barely above a whisper. 

Patrick ran a comforting hand down David’s back, which was as much as he’d racked up the courage to do, before heading back inside. He found Viv and Ayami talking to some of their guests and interrupted their conversation as politely as he could. 

“Hi, Patrick, is everything okay?” Ayami asked. 

“Well—I just wanted to thank you both again for inviting me and David and let you know that we have to head out. David got hit with a migraine and I have to take him home. He’s waiting in the car,” Patrick said apologetically. He knew that it was an excuse David had used several times to get out of things with his family, so Patrick didn’t feel that bad about using it now.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Viv said, concern etched onto her face. “Of course, go take care of him. Give him our love. And thank you both so much for coming.” 

“Thank you, guys. Truly. And congratulations.” Viv and Ayami folded him into a tight hug and said goodbye. He sped back to the parking lot and slipped into the driver’s seat. 

“Hi, I told them you were having a migraine, so we’re okay to go. Are you ready?” 

David sniffled and nodded, playing with the rings in his lap, before turning to face the window. Patrick scrubbed his hands over his face while David wasn’t looking, and he started the car and set off into the night. 

The silence was excruciating. Patrick wanted so badly to break it, to ask David what was wrong, to ask him to let Patrick fix it. But as much as they’d gotten used to sharing their anxieties with each other, this one felt big, unwieldy. Patrick had never seen David like this before—eerily quiet, save for his sniffling, and so withdrawn. Patrick wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen David cry. He didn’t know how to ask, and he knew David wasn’t likely to tell, and all he could do was grip the steering wheel tight like it was the only thing keeping him anchored in his seat. 

When they reached the highway, the sounds of other cars cruising alongside them helped disrupt the quiet a bit. A neon sign advertising a 24-hour greasy spoon off the next exit loomed on the horizon, like a gift from the heavens. 

“Are you hungry? We could, um—stop at that diner. Get some milkshakes, maybe? Fries?” Patrick tried. 

David looked over at him, his expression unreadable for the first time since Patrick had met him. “Yeah. Okay,” he murmured hollowly. 

Patrick nodded and signalled to turn. Within five minutes, they’d pulled off the highway and parked in the near-empty lot. A bored-looking waitress at the counter instructed them to sit wherever they want, so they slipped into a little booth off to the side. Plastic menus leaned against the wall, and Patrick distributed them. He hid behind his, eyes peeking over the top of his menu to look at David. In the harsh fluorescents of the diner, David looked worse than Patrick had imagined. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his lips cracked and dehydrated from all the crying, and Patrick’s heart ached at the sight of it. 

The waitress wandered over with two plastic cups of water and took their orders—a strawberry milkshake for David, chocolate for Patrick, and fries to share—before heading off to fill them. David sipped his water and looked everywhere but at Patrick. Frustration was eating Patrick alive at this point, because more than anything, he was disappointed in himself for not knowing how to try and fix this. He felt like he was walking along the raw, cracked edge of a cliff, and one wrong move would send him careening into the depths. He was too afraid to risk it, so he followed the path of silence and hoped that David would throw him a map, point him in the right direction. 

The quiet minutes stretched on like hot rubber, painful to the touch. Finally, the food arrived. The milkshakes were served in tall crystal glasses, with the extras from the blender sitting in large metal cups next to them. The smell of oil and salt wafting from the fresh fries filled their nostrils, and the familiarity of it put Patrick a little more at ease. He took one off the top and dipped it into his milkshake before taking a bite, and he heard an aggrieved noise come from David’s direction. He raised his eyebrows. 

“Something wrong?” 

David made a face at him from above the rim of his drink. “You just dipped a fry in your milkshake.” 

Patrick chuckled despite himself. “Have you never seen someone do that before?” 

David rolled his eyes, looking a little more himself. “Of course I have. Doesn’t make it any less _incorrect_.” 

“Have you tried it?” 

“What?” David asked, surprised.

“Have you dipped fries in a milkshake before? It’s really good.” 

“No,” David scoffed. 

“Okay, so, here,” Patrick said, already feeling buoyed by the fact that David was talking to him like normal again, and he picked up a fry and swiped it through David’s milkshake. 

“Hey, what—”

“Try it,” Patrick urged, holding the fry up near David’s mouth. 

“I’m not gonna—”

“It’ll drip onto your suit if you don’t make it quick.” 

David made a frustrated noise at him before accepting the fry. Patrick watched as his face flipped through a range of expressions—confused, then disgusted, then thoughtful, and finally, impressed. 

“What do you think?”

David cocked his head. “Okay. Yeah, that’s—that’s pretty good, actually.” 

Patrick laughed, triumphant, and dipped another fry into his own milkshake. David followed suit, popping a strawberry milkshake-covered fry into his mouth. 

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Patrick finally mustered up the courage to ask. “Do you...feel like you’re ready to talk about it?” 

David took a long sip of his milkshake and sighed. He hesitated for a second, but then it all spilled out of him in a rush of air that Patrick tried his best to keep up with. “It was just—hearing everything Viv and Ayami said to each other, watching all those couples around the room dance, it was like being surrounded by...love. And I know that that’s supposed to feel good, being in an environment like that, but it just kept reminding me, over and over, that—” David stopped himself short, wide-eyed.

“That?” Patrick pressed. He felt David pivot.

“That...I’m never...going to get that. For myself,” David said slowly. 

Patrick felt those words pierce his chest like a shard of ice. But David—he had to know, right? How could he not know? Patrick’s body had been screaming it at him this entire time, every molecule in his skin tapping out the words _I love you I love you I love you_ like they were the lyrics to the only song they knew how to sing. Could David not feel that? Every time Patrick touched him, kissed his cheek, held his hand—could David really not know? And for a second, Patrick was moved to tell him, make it clear. It almost tumbled off the tip of his tongue then, but David started talking, and Patrick snapped his mouth shut.

“And this—if I’m being honest, this fake relationship isn’t helping,” David said quietly. 

“Oh,” Patrick said, feeling like the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“It—it’s just...everyday, you’re so considerate, and affectionate, and… _nice_. And it just. Reminds me that I want that...with...someone. So.” David tapped absently at the table top. “And, you know, _obviously_ I’m not gonna have that with you,” he tacked on with a strange laugh, as if the thought might have been too ridiculous to even consider. 

“Mhmm,” Patrick said, staring at his own hands while he massaged the calluses on his palms. “So...does this mean you...don’t want to do this anymore?” he asked finally, looking up. 

“No,” David said immediately. “I mean. I...don’t know.” 

Patrick nodded and heaved a sigh. “Okay. We can...we can talk about it later.” 

“Thank you, Patrick. And thank you for, um...taking care of me. Like. Feeding me, and...taking me home,” David murmured. 

Patrick tried to give him a smile, but he knew it came out looking sadder than he’d wanted it to. “Of course.” He’d wanted to say, “Of course. I’m always going to take care of you,” but it felt impossible, too big and dangerous a statement. So he let the sentence hang. 

“Can I—can I try it with yours?” David asked, gesturing to Patrick’s glass. 

“What? Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Patrick nudged it over and watched as David dipped a fry into the chocolate milkshake. 

David began prattling on reverently about the food at the party while slowly making the rest of the fries disappear. Patrick watched on, amused, responding appropriately when he had to, but he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. 

When they finally made it back to the car to start the rest of the drive home, David immediately flipped open the sun visor and checked himself in the mirror. 

“Ugh, Jesus, I look like shit. How could you not tell me I was walking around looking like this?” 

Patrick glanced over as he turned out of the parking lot. “And how well do you think it would have gone if I’d said that?” he said, trying for snarky, familiar.

David nodded quickly and then shook his head. “Yeah. Yeah. You’re right.” He connected his phone to the car radio and turned the volume down low on the low-fi playlist he’d just pulled up. Patrick understood—his batteries were running a little low, too, and he didn’t have the mental bandwidth to listen to anything upbeat or complex at the moment. It was kind of nice, comforting, to know that, on this and many other things, he and David were always on the same page. 

The events of tonight were difficult to read, though, and Patrick was having a harder time than usual trying to take David’s romantic temperature, so when it came to the one page that counted, Patrick was at a loss. It seemed near-impossible to puzzle out how David actually felt about him; he could spend forever recording everything remotely romantic that David initiated, organising all of it until he had categories that stretched for miles, but at the end of the day, he could never quite say for certain which of David’s actions and words were fake and which were real.

“Do you mind stopping by the store first, actually? Or you can just drop me off there, I don’t mind,” David said. 

Patrick looked over, bewildered. “Uh. Okay. Why do you want to go to the store?”

David sighed and examined the corners of his eyes in the visor mirror again. “My eyes are still puffy from all that crying, and if Alexis sees me like this, she won’t get off my back. And I really don’t have the energy to deal with that right now.” 

“So, what, you’re gonna sleep in the backroom?” 

“Um, do you think I’m _capable_ of folding myself up small enough to get a full night’s sleep on that couch? No, no. I was gonna pick up some more eucalyptus under-eye serum to bring this swelling down. I needed a new pot anyway, and I’d pay any amount of money to not have Alexis give me her _pity-face_ right now. I’d rip her hair out.”

Patrick chuckled. “Would it really be that bad?”

David scoffed. “The last time she walked in on me crying, she bundled me up in a blanket like it was a straitjacket and force-fed me sugar-free ice cream.”

“That sounds...okay?”

“Okay, no, but the entire time she’s doing it, she’s like ‘ _Oooh, you poor thing, I’m sure he just, like, found a younger model to date. It’s not about_ you,’” David said, putting on a shockingly accurate impression of his sister. “She’s _very_ talented at saying exactly the thing that would get under my skin. She gets it from my mom.”

“Ah, I see,” Patrick said with a nod. He watched from the corner of his eye as David swept light fingers across his face like he was trying to soothe the skin with his touch. Patrick tucked his lips between his teeth, knowing that the idea that just popped into his head might not be a welcome one. And yet, because Patrick was curious and could take calculated risks if he was _just curious enough_ , Patrick said, “You know, you can crash at my place if you want. If you’re, um, really worried about Alexis seeing you.” 

David looked over in surprise. “Wait, what?”

Patrick cleared his throat. “Um, you could—you could take my bed. At Ray’s. If you want. I can sleep on the couch, I don’t mind.”

“Really? I don’t want to kick you out of your own _bed_ ,” David said with a raise of his shoulders for emphasis.

Patrick nodded, feeling a little more secure. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, you’re always welcome to stay over if you need to. It’s just—” He stopped short. It was just that he didn’t want to make David uncomfortable, and he was just now realising that sleeping a floor away from David might, well, open a door that he didn’t know how to open, if he was being honest, and he didn’t know how he felt about that. 

“It’s just?” 

Patrick settled on an answer for David. “I don’t, uh. Want to make you...feel worse, you know, I know you’re on the fence about even keeping this fake dating thing going but. I just want to help you.” He cringed internally, realising what that sounded like. He might as well have said, “It’s just that I don’t want you to _think_ I have feelings for you because I offered you my bed. I’m _just helping_ you.” Which...no. That couldn’t be further from the truth. But when he looked over to see if hurt would pass over David’s face, Patrick found him deep in thought. 

David hummed finally. “Yeah. And um, thank you? For your concern? And that—we will definitely talk about that soon. But I’m more preoccupied with not having to face my sister. Or, um, my parents, who would probably be worse. So. I’m...can I take you up on your offer?” 

Patrick smiled and nodded, trying to ignore the colony of butterflies that had been released in his stomach. He spent the rest of the drive home trying to calm his own nerves, which was _ridiculous_ because he brought this upon _himself_ , but there was no backing out of this now. 

An eternity and a half later, he pulled into Ray’s driveway. The lights were off in the house, which wasn’t surprising given the hour, but Patrick was still relieved that he wouldn’t have to answer to Ray about all this at the moment. 

He warned David to keep quiet, since Ray was a light sleeper, and they crept silently into the house. David had seen the ground floor from his many visits during the beginning of their acquaintance, so Patrick only showed him around the upstairs, pointing out his own room, the bathroom, and Ray’s room in a whisper. 

Patrick led David into his room and switched the light on, shutting the door behind them. “The walls are thin,” he said, “but we don’t have to whisper in here. Um—let me get you some clothes to sleep in.” He dug through his drawers for a sleep shirt that didn’t have a beer logo or a band name on it and he settled on a plain white shirt and unassuming grey sweatpants. 

“Thank you, Patrick. I mean...for everything,” David said quietly, taking the clothes and hugging them to his chest. 

“Of course, David. Anytime.” Patrick grabbed some jammies for himself and turned to steal a pillow and a blanket from the closet. “You can have the bathroom first. I need to fix up the couch anyway.” 

“Okay, yeah. That sounds—that sounds good. Um, Patrick?” David said, stopping Patrick before he could leave. 

Patrick turned and took in the anxiety on David’s face, the wall that was growing between them at this moment, towering over him, blocking out sunlight. _Is this it?_ Patrick thought. _If he asks me how I feel, I wouldn’t know how to answer without boxing myself in or telling the truth._

David took a deep breath and the panic swelled in Patrick. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. “Look, I—I just wanted to ask this now? Um, because if I have to have a whole shame spiral about it, I’d rather...do it here, in this...space you’ve given me. For the night. And not, you know, three feet away from my sister.” 

Patrick’s mouth went dry. _Oh god, oh god, oh god_. “What...is it?” he croaked.

“The night we made the contract, um...can I just...ask? Why you were so, uh...so against telling your parents?” David practically scrunched his whole body up once he’d gotten the question out, but he hastened to add, “It’s not—like, it’s fine if you don’t wanna tell me, I know it’s probably a super personal thing for you, and I don’t—I mean—I’m not trying to pry, it’s just I was, um, worried that you were...embarrassed? Of me? Which, you know, totally reasonable response? So like. It’s fine. Actually? Never mind, forget I asked. I, um, don’t...think I want to know.” 

Patrick grimaced at David, feeling in his _bones_ how painful that was for him to get out. Although, what Patrick was about to say wasn’t going to be a walk in the park either. He put his pile of pyjamas and pillows on the edge of the bed and steeled himself. “Um. So...I—I know my parents are good people, David, it’s just...I don’t know...how they would react. Or...if they would react the way I think they would. It’s just that they thought I was straight, my whole life. Before I came here, actually—I had a fiancée. I was going to marry a woman.” Patrick watched David carefully, tiptoeing through these truths about himself that he didn’t know how to share, but David’s face was shockingly neutral. “But I couldn’t do it. So I ran. Here. And, um...my parents and I—we’re—we’re fine, kind of. I just. I didn’t know...how to tell them.” 

David tipped his head, digesting. “So...you’re not straight? And you didn’t want to come out to your parents...by telling them you were with me?” 

Patrick exhaled. “I...yeah. I guess that’s it, basically. I know it’s not...you know, the responsible, _adult_ thing to do, run from the idea of coming out, but I couldn’t—”

“Hey,” David said softly, stepping forward to hold Patrick’s arm. “What you’re dealing with is very personal. And something that you should only do on your terms.” Patrick smiled balefully at him and David continued. “And for the record? I think what you did—I think it’s brave. I...I’ve done my fair share of running. And...it’s lonely. It’s scary, even when you have the safety nets I did. Even more when you don’t. But mostly...it forces you to face the things about yourself that you didn’t want to before. And that...that’s fucking brave, Patrick. For whatever it’s worth, I’m proud of you. And I’m glad you’re here.” 

Patrick took in a shaky breath and gave David a smile, a real one, one that came from his heart. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to David’s cheek, because he needed to, because he was still too nervous and wrung-out to leap further, but felt so pulled by David’s gravity that he couldn’t stand still either. David’s smile twisted itself all the way into one side of his face and he patted Patrick’s arm. 

“Good night David,” Patrick murmured.

“Good night, Patrick.” 

Patrick plucked his pyjamas, pillows, and blanket off the corner of the bed and slipped out of the room. With Ray locked up in his room for the night, Patrick didn’t mind getting ready for bed downstairs. Once he’d settled in, warm and comfortable and feeling a good bit lighter, he stared up at the ceiling, letting his imagination get carried away through what he pictured David’s nightly routine to be. Tonight had been a whirlwind, or a rollercoaster, or a hurricane: a big, powerful thing whose forces rattled him from the inside out. But here he was, in the silent aftermath, and though he knew there were more storms ahead, more harsh winds that could throw him off course, he felt deeply at peace with himself. Nothing was a sure thing except for how he felt about himself, how he felt about David, and he knew that would be enough to tide him through the scary parts. He fell asleep dreaming about the grounding feel of David’s stubbly cheek under his mouth. 

Light spilled through the blinds in the living room the next morning, filling the room with sunshine, but that wasn’t what woke Patrick. Ray was in the kitchen, already dressed for the day, clamoring about with his espresso machine. Patrick sat up on the couch and stretched, cracking every joint that had settled wrong in the night. 

“Patrick, good morning!” Ray said brightly, stirring milk into his coffee. 

“Hi Ray,” Patrick replied scratchily. 

“Was that David I heard last night? I could have sworn I heard his voice in the hallway. Or maybe I was dreaming.”

“Oh, did we wake you? I’m sorry, we got in late from Ayami and Viv’s party. I hope we weren’t too disruptive.” 

Ray shook his head. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I _am_ curious as to why you’re sleeping on the couch, though, since I don’t recall hearing any sign of a lover’s spat.” 

Patrick grimaced at him. “Um—it was just...better like this. For last night.” 

Ray appraised him knowingly from behind the rim of his coffee cup before putting it down on the counter and leaning his hip against the granite. “Patrick, I’m not one to pry—”

Patrick couldn’t help but let out an amused little noise at that, but Ray plowed on.

“But I see how much happier you are with David, and I truly think that this relationship is good for you.” 

“Oh,” Patrick murmured, eyebrows rising with shock.

“It’s been nice to see you so at peace. I remember when you first came to town, looking for a place to rent. You were really...really guarded then. And you seemed tired. Bone-tired. But you have a new vitality about you now. I’m not sure what this quarrell is about—or whatever it is, really—but you’ll get past it. This relationship really seems like the real thing, Patrick, and knowing you, you won’t let it go. And you shouldn’t.” 

“Thank you, Ray,” Patrick said, tucking Ray’s words away in his heart for safe-keeping. “That means a lot.” 

Ray offered him a smile and downed the rest of his drink. “I have an early open house, but there are eggs in the fridge. Maybe things will get better with breakfast. You know what they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach!” he said cheekily before tossing his now-empty coffee cup in the dishwasher and sweeping out the door. 

Patrick settled back into the arm of the sofa, digesting, before resolving to take Ray’s advice. He found the eggs and a wedge of parmesan in the fridge and put a couple of buttered slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster. He figured it would take too long to try to emulate the scrambled eggs Viv made the first time they all ate together, so he settled for his own version. Gordon Ramsey might have turned up his nose at his attempt, but Patrick hoped it was at least good enough for David. He sliced up a couple of apples from the bowl of fruit on the counter, too, for good measure, writing himself a mental note to replace all the extra supplies he used, and plated up the simple but hearty breakfast.

As Patrick brought the food to the breakfast nook, David crept sheepishly down the stairs, looking as put together as one could when wearing last night’s clothes. Something awoke in Patrick’s chest at the sight, something small and not altogether familiar, but it wasn’t unpleasant either. 

“Hi,” David said softly. “What’s this?” 

“Good morning. I made breakfast for us.” 

David tucked his mouth to the side, visibly touched. “You didn’t...you didn’t have to do that.” 

Patrick took a breath. “I, um. I just wanted to tell you something. It’s...it’s really important. And I figured, you know, better odds if I tell you on a full stomach.” 

David blanched but plunked obediently into his seat. “Um...that’s definitely not the best way to give me an appetite? But...I understand your logic. So.” He delicately spooned scrambled eggs onto the toast and took a tentative bite. 

“Good?” Patrick asked, trying his level best to defuse the tension he’d built up. 

David offered him a small smile. “Mhmm.” 

Patrick watched him eat for a bit, training his thoughts onto the feelings waking up in him rather than the ones holding him back. It felt a lot like trying to rationalise cliff diving. Every cell in him with an ounce of self-preservation was telling him not to jump, but there was that tiny force in the back of his head, the one that lived without abandon and was (mostly) all the better for it, telling him to take that final step off the ledge. It was a voice he seldom listened to, and in fact could count on one hand exactly how many times he’d done it, but it was worth listening to now. It needed to be now, because David was soft and still sleep-rumpled in front of him, because he was more honest with David last night than he had been with himself in thirty years, because all his life he’d been afraid to fall and finally, _finally_ , he had a reason to do it. There was nothing worth preserving about following the paths that he was never meant to walk down in the first place. So he pivoted. Stepped right up to the edge of that cliff. Walked off of it. 

“David, last night, when you said I was brave, I—that—there was a, uh, a switch that flipped, the day I left home. And...that was maybe the first truly brave thing I’d ever done...in my life. And then I met you and—and—suddenly there was a whole _switchboard_ to be looking after, full of levers and knobs and things that I didn’t know how to operate. I left, and I met you, and I finally came to terms with the fact that there were parts of myself that I didn’t know fully yet. But then...David, faking this relationship with you has been the easiest thing I’ve ever done. And I think it’s because...there’s not much I have to fake. It’s confusing and thrilling and...terrifying. The, uh—the point I’m trying to make here is that there are things I want to do—need to do—to get to know myself better. To figure out my place in the world. And you make me feel like I can do them, even when they scare me, even when I have no clue how to start. _You_ make me feel brave, David. Every day.” 

David’s eyes looked glossy when they met Patrick’s, and the wonder and admiration that was writ large on David’s face only served to spur Patrick on. 

“I know—I know that there are a million ways this could go wrong. I’ve talked myself out of it and back into it a hundred times. And the fact is, I don’t know—well, anything. I don’t know how you feel. I don’t know if you’ll even want to keep working with me. We...we can talk about it, if you want—”

“Wh—I don’t...what…?” David tried, shaking his head. 

Patrick sucked in a breath. “I don’t want to keep fake dating you, David.”

“Oh.” David’s brows furrowed. “Um—”

Patrick exhaled harshly. “God, I’m sorry, I’m not being clear—I don’t—I don’t want to fake date you because I want to date you _for real_.” Patrick cleared his throat. “Make you my...boyfriend. For real.” 

“You...want me?” David asked, shaking his head again, like he almost couldn’t believe it. 

“I want you,” Patrick replied, simple as anything, like he had always been meant to say those words to David. 

David stared at him, a million emotions flickering across his features, so fast Patrick couldn’t catch all of them. Finally, he parted his lips and said, “Kiss me.”

Patrick took his hand, brought him to his feet, and with all the lightning crashing around in his chest, zipping across bone and sinew and making him feel fucking invincible, he pressed his mouth to David’s. It tasted a little like salvation, but mostly, it tasted brand new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "You Matter to Me"


	5. i'm right here beside you

The sun spilled warm and soft-edged across the floor of the flat, glancing off dust motes as they floated toward the ceiling, bathing David in light. Patrick lay awake beside him, eyes following the planes of David’s face, tracing the edges of skin that weren’t buried into the pillow like he was committing it to memory. A smile graced Patrick’s face as his gaze landed on David’s mouth, and he leaned forward to press a kiss onto it. 

David stirred awake, just registering the feel of Patrick’s mouth against his own, and smiled against his lips. A hand crept up to cup the back of Patrick’s neck, but on its way, it snagged on some cellophane. 

David pulled back, bewildered. “What—”

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” Patrick murmured with a smile, brandishing the flowers he’d picked up from a florist in Elmdale early that morning. 

David furrowed his brow. “That’s not for another month.” 

Patrick shook his head, still smiling. “Not the real anniversary. The fake one.” 

David squinted at Patrick like he’d started speaking another language.

Patrick laughed. “A year ago today, in Viv and Ayami’s kitchen, I told them we were dating. And it was the best accident of my life.” 

David felt an overwhelming swell of affection at that, and his mouth twisted to keep it contained. He pulled Patrick back into his space instead, sighing into his mouth and pouring all the words he couldn’t get out into a soft kiss.

Patrick responded in kind, deftly placing the flowers on the nightstand behind David’s head and wrapping himself around David. They whiled the morning away like that, tangled up in each other, enjoying their first morning in Patrick’s new apartment in sun-warmed bliss.

Later, when they couldn’t ignore their stomachs anymore, they padded into the kitchen together and traded glances over the rims of coffee cups as the bread toasted and the eggs fried. Patrick stood over the pan to prod at them every once in a while, and David pressed himself in behind him, tucking his chin over Patrick’s shoulder to watch his progress.

“You know what I still think is funny?” David murmured. Patrick hummed his response. “How it took us, like, _three months total_ to tell Ayami and Viv that we actually weren’t together because we were so afraid of their reaction, and then when we finally did, it was just, like. Nothing. No big deal. Three months of anxiety for no reason.” 

Patrick snorted. “To be fair, it wasn’t for _no reason_. I think we had a perfectly reasonable reaction to their mistake.” 

David scrunched his nose up. “Mmm, would we say that faking a relationship for a month and a half, then deciding to make it a _real one_ , and _still_ waiting another month to tell them the whole story is reasonable?” 

Patrick made quick work of plating the eggs and then turning in David’s arms to face him, a smile playing on his lips. “You complaining?” 

David chuckled. “Not anymore.” 

“Mhmm,” Patrick murmured before leaning in to kiss him again. 

“But also, I _do_ disagree with something Ayami said when we told them,” David qualified. 

“What’s that?”

“She just waved off our lie and called it a _‘victimless crime,’_ ” David said with a flair of his hands, “but I’m pretty sure _I_ was the victim there.” 

Patrick grinned, fondness warming his gaze. “Yeah, David? Were you the victim?” 

David crept his fingers up Patrick’s arms and rested them on his shoulders. “I mean, to be expected to look at you and touch you, but not _kiss_ you? Pretty sure that’s a hate crime.” 

“Are you gonna have me arrested?” Patrick joked.

David rolled his eyes and shook his head with a smile. “No, I wouldn’t let them lock you away.” 

“Good to know,” Patrick said, pressing another soft kiss to David’s lips. “But speaking of getting locked away…” He slipped out of David’s arms briefly to grab a plain white envelope out of his desk drawer. Patrick crowded back into David’s space and handed it to him. 

David looked down at it with a raised eyebrow. “Um, are you having _me_ arrested? Or...summoned?” He squinted down at the envelope suspiciously. 

Patrick grinned, a little guilty. “Maybe that segue could’ve used a little work.” 

“Mhmm.” 

“So, this is a key to this apartment. I want you to have it,” Patrick murmured, turning the envelope in David’s hands and allowing the key to slip out into his own. 

David looked down at it, amazed, like it was a fallen star. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, meeting Patrick’s eyes. He felt like he was asking a million questions at once, all his little anxieties folded into those three words, but Patrick understood. Patrick took those little anxieties and swept them away, not just now, but always, every single time. To David, it felt a little like magic. To Patrick, it felt a lot like love. 

“I’m sure, David. I want you to have access to this place whenever you want. Whenever you need.” Patrick pressed the key into David’s hand and closed David’s fingers around it before pressing a kiss to his fist. 

“You mean whenever _you_ need,” David returned with a suggestive eyebrow waggle. Patrick laughed, catching on.

“That too,” he said, pressing the words into David’s cheek.

David savoured the touch for a second, luxuriating in it, before finally being able to whisper, “Thank you. For trusting me.” With this key, with his heart, all of it. He knew Patrick would understand. 

“Always, David,” Patrick whispered back. 

The eggs were a little cold and the toast a little stale by the time they managed to extricate themselves from bed for the second time that day, but it didn’t matter. For them, there would be time for indecision, for lazy mornings, for sprawling afternoons, and after the sunsets and the teacups and the hikes up mountains, it would have been worth it after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title _also_ from "You Matter to Me" (in fact, it's the second half of the line used as the title for chapter 4)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! I think it's appropriate that I'm posting this last bit today, because I am so grateful for this fandom and the lovely people I've met in it, which includes all of you lovely readers. Your kudos and sweet comments really make a girl feel loved, so thank you for leaving them, and thank you for reading this and every other work I've written!
> 
> Also, it's worth mentioning that Ayami is a Japanese immigrant, and I tried to infuse Japanese culture into her character as much as I could. I am a Filipino immigrant, _not_ Japanese, and with no Japanese heritage to speak of, really, so if you _are_ Japanese and find cultural mistakes in this fic, _please_ let me know. I'd be so happy to rework it, and I am so sorry in advance if this does happen. all love and respect <3
> 
> A million hugs and thank yous to the wonderful, the inimitable [aly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit), who put so much love and care into betaing this behemoth for me. aly, you're a goddamn gem of a human being. she's also on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/wardowedidit) if you'd like to follow her for a+ content (strongly recommend). 
> 
> the most honourable of mentions to [em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingmywaydoll/pseuds/goingmywaydoll) for her incessant cheerleading (read: nagging) for me to get my ass into gear and keep writing. this would've died in my WIP folder if it weren't for you, em. love u. major shouts out as well to [jess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessX2231/pseuds/JessX2231), who not only betaed some of this fic but also doggedly checked in on me to make sure i was getting writing done. thanks for keeping me accountable, angel. 
> 
> this is _officially_ the longest thing i've ever written. yay for breaking personal records!
> 
> i'm on tumblr at [noahnicholasreid](https://noahnicholasreid.tumblr.com) if you wanna come talk to me about gay love and how communities are built around food, or follow me on twitter [@imbrokelyn99](https://twitter.com/imbrokelyn99)! thanks again for reading xx


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